The Veil of Necessity
by OmniHelix
Summary: When a series of strange events seem to suggest that Finn didn't actually die, Rachel begins to question her sanity. AU
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: I own neither Glee nor its characters, only those characters I have created. This story was inspired in part by the novels of John Fowles and Scott Spencer. I hope you enjoy it. Reviews, as always, are welcome. **

She hurried away from the theatre after signing a few autographs. Some of the people waiting outside were left disappointed at not getting a playbill or picture signed; however, everyone knew Rachel Berry was not one to spend much time with fans after shows. This particular night she didn't even spend her usual few minutes. She just randomly signed a couple of playbills thrust at her as she moved along towards her waiting cab. Nevertheless, the crowd waved and cheered.

Judah was waiting for her at Sardi's. Rachel texted him, saying she was finally on her way. She offered no apology; he was fully aware of her schedule, so if he got pissy, well, she just wasn't in the mood for that. Besides, it wasn't as if either of them of them owned the other. She did like him, though. Judah Freleng was dark, good looking, and talented. And Jewish, which she found endearing. And he was good in bed-maybe even as good as Brody—which was the only thing, these days, which seemed to relieve her stubborn insomnia.

He was having a drink at their usual table. As she approached with the hostess, he smiled and stood up. Ever the gentleman. She liked the impeccably-tailored, traditional gray suit he wore—Savile Row, no less (they had met soon after he had come off a successful run in the West End).

Judah gently kissed her on the lips, and nodded to a waiter, who scurried to bring the drink he had already ordered for her, The Macallan 18-year old single malt scotch with a splash of spring water (he preferred Laphroaig).

"How long have you been waiting?" Rachel asked.

He shrugged. "I got here a few minutes before your text."

"So you're still on your first drink then. Awesome!"

"I know you don't like your men drunk and sloppy."

She beamed at the waiter as he brought her drink.

"Well, yes, but I also don't like it when they get ahead of me. Cheers!" They clinked glasses and drank. She closed her eyes, savoring that first sip. Judah had taught her to appreciate fine whiskey.

She smiled at him. "So, how did the audition go?"

"Pretty good." Judah was a stage actor, and in-between plays. He had auditioned for a highly-anticipated new play, _The Moon Garden_, by Pulitzer-winning playwright Dave Welland. "I think I have a chance at this one."

"Don't be so modest," Rachel laughed. He gave her a sheepish look. "I happen to know you did very well."

He sighed. "You didn't tell them about us, did you?"

"You think they didn't already know? Seriously?" Their relationship was no secret to the press, and had garnered some low key attention, but not much. It's not like either of them had a Tony award yet.

Rachel liked a man with a healthy sense of pride, but the fact remained, _The Moon Garden_ was being produced by Billie West and Jerry Fineman, the same ones who put on _Funny Girl_. They called Rachel right after it was over, as she was having coffee that afternoon before heading in to work on her new show, _Mount Olympus Blues_. Judah looked somewhat crestfallen, so she patted his hand.

"They said you were great. I didn't have to say anything on your behalf." She stopped and chuckled, sipping her drink. "Well, I did reply 'I know.'" And she winked.

He laughed, and they placed their orders with the waiter. Both had the Spinach Canneloni (appetizer size), with a fine bottle of chianti. The conversation was typical for them: about Rachel's show, how she was getting along with her male lead (she wasn't); current Tony rumors (she was in the running for her portrayal of the obsessed, narcissistic Sally Jones); how the director couldn't quite seem to capture the composer's intentions (she was good friends with the composer, Tom Foley), despite Rachel's helpful input. Judah told some more stories of his London run of the revival of Harold Pinter's _The Pumpkin Eater_ (very good critical reception, mediocre audience response); _The Moon Garden (_she had read all of the buzz about it); how Judah felt intimidated by Welland being at the audition.

"Ooh! What does he look like in person?" Rachel asked, all fangirly.

"He's about six-foot tall, kind of wiry, with gray hair and beard. Gold- rimmed glasses. Like a college professor, even down to the brown corduroy jacket and jeans. He thanked me, but that's about the only interaction I had with him."

"Something tells me you have it in the bag," Rachel said, toasting him with her coffee cup.

"Are you hiding something?" Judah raised an eyebrow.

"Maybe." She flashed him a coy glance over her cup. "Maybe not." Truth was, she didn't know for sure, since the auditions for the lead weren't complete, but Billie West had said he was the best they had seen so far.

They had met at a dinner party thrown in honor of their manager, Fred Callo. She was seated next to him, although she was actually there with a date, a singer named John, who, frankly, seemed far more interested in obtaining representation by Fred than in her. Which was fine with Rachel; she was relishing leaving him with a peck on the cheek afterwards.

It had been seven months since she had started dating. Three years after Finn's death, she had decided it was time. Unfortunately, she couldn't seem to gel for long with any of the men she had seen. Clark, a Wall Street banker, didn't even last one full date: he was so obnoxious she left the restaurant and took her own cab home. Mark was better, a physics graduate student Kurt had recommended, He seemed nice, but her third date with him was a disaster. Kurt said she just wasn't ready for sex, but she knew that wasn't true. She was more than ready. Unfortunately, it wasn't until they were in bed and Mark saw her only tattoo that things went downhill.

"Who's Finn?" he asked her, not in an unpleasant way. Just curious, she supposed.

Rachel hadn't thought much about the tattoo for some time—it had become a part of her body, so much so that she almost didn't know it was there.

"He—" Mark was stroking her flank, smiling, but Rachel froze. How could she describe him? "The love of my life" probably wasn't a diplomatic description, given the circumstances. "Ex-fiancé? Not much better.

"He was my high school sweetheart," she said, finally, hoping Mark would drop it. But he thought she wanted him to say something, you know, to acknowledge that reality.

"You must have loved him," Mark said, which was probably the worst thing he could have said at that moment. She broke into tears, all her carefully built-up defenses just swept away, and ended up sobbing, and asking Mark for a rain check that never came.

The ironically-named Woody played baseball for the Mets, and was, thank goodness, fun and uncomplicated. He didn't even acknowledge the tattoo. And he was gentle with her that first time. Letting herself go after so long, Rachel felt her sorrow, which manifested itself now as insomnia, dissolve temporarily. She awoke in Woody's bed actually refreshed and alert. During her time with Woody, she looked rested and healthy, even gaining back a portion of the weight Finn's death had taken from her.

But it didn't last. Woody replaced her with a Hollywood actress, and Rachel, furious and hurt, found herself sliding back into her previous pattern of not eating or sleeping, along with a new coldness. All that concerned her, for the next few dates, was getting a good night's sleep. She refused to talk about the tattoo. Rachel lived a compartmentalized life: still deeply, hopelessly in love and connected to poor dead Finn, and emotionally distant but sexually enthusiastic to anyone else.

Fortunately, she wasn't much of a partier, so her professional life didn't suffer. On the contrary; she did get a Tony nomination for _Funny Girl_ in its last year. And her friend Tom Foley, a composer that she met at a party thrown by the _Funny Girl_ producers, specifically wrote the part of Sally Jones in _Mount Olympus Blues_, with her in mind, and had enough clout to get her cast. The show, almost at the end of its first year, took awhile to catch on, but when it did, Rachel found herself in even more exposure and adulation than with _Funny Girl._ The part, with its non-stop intensity, plus Tom's complex, difficult, but mesmerizingly melodic music, took almost everything Rachel had to perform. But the result was astonishing. Audiences couldn't seem to get enough of it. There was pressure to add extra matinees, but Erik Strong, the director, had wisely chosen a seasoned Broadway veteran, Talia Gillerman, as an understudy. Unlike with _Funny Girl_, and its almost disastrous casting of Santana Lopez as understudy (although they remained friends, both agreed it was best if they didn't work together), Talia and Rachel formed a solid professional relationship, and worked out the part so that when Talia was on stage, the transition was almost seamless. The result was a show capable of running on all cylinders, and Rachel was not chronically exhausted, as long as she could find sleep.

On nights when she wasn't with a man, Rachel was forced to be alone with her thoughts in her small Manhattan apartment (her agent renegotiated her _Funny Girl_ contract a year into its very successful run, and she now commanded and received very good money). She still privately mourned Finn's loss. Nobody, not even Kurt, knew how wounded she remained, how bereft she felt. It took everything she had to keep remembering how Finn had kept her from losing her humanity.

In her darkest moments, Rachel begged Finn to come back to her, because she feared not being able to keep going this way.

At the dinner party, the attraction between Rachel and Judah was mutual and immediate. Judah was smart, ambitious, and accomplished, from here in New York. Their conversation was sparkling and flirty, and when she took him home with her that night after sending John packing, the sex was mutually enjoyable. She awoke from a profoundly restful sleep to the smells of him cooking breakfast.

Judah was stable. Yes, he could be moody, but he wasn't needy, and, like her, not ready for anything more than being what amounted to a friend with benefits. She had always thought that term was ridiculous, so it came as a very pleasant surprise when she realized that's what they had become. The friendship was real—there was true affection and interest, and concern for the other's welfare. They had common experience—Judah had a broken engagement, at the altar no less, that he had been mourning, and unable to resolve, for some time—and each of them provided exactly the kind of company that the other could handle. And the sex, with its narcotic effects, was consistent enough to actually affect her health for the better. Her skin improved, and she gained enough weight back to actually put curves on her still-delicate figure. Judah, in turn, also benefited. His moodiness seemed innate, she amusedly noticed, but it appeared more under control since she had known him.

The sad fact was, before they met, their lives had been in slow, mutual decline; gradually, almost imperceptibly, eroded by unresolved sorrow. Together, they could, at the very least, reach a stable equilibrium of some kind, an arrest to the decline, a starting point from which each could properly heal. By some stroke of fate, Rachel and Judah turned out to be the best things to happen to each other at that point in their lives.

There was no fatalism involved, no cynical acknowledgement of the temporary nature of the arrangement. The fact was, neither of them ruled out the possibility that their relationship could deepen, someday. But for now, Rachel and Judah were grateful for the emotional breathing room.

"Okay," said Judah, "be that way." And in a perfectly-trained British accent, added, "But if I find out you are hiding something, I'll be frightfully browned-off."

They lingered over the wine and tried celebrity watching, but none but themselves seemed to be in the restaurant at the moment.

"Did I ever tell you the first real celebrity I ever met was Patty LuPone, and it was right over there?" She pointed at the table.

"When was that?"

"When I was a junior in high school, and we came here for our first Nationals competition for the Glee club." He could see the happy smile grow on her face. "Finn took me here before our performance."

"He took you on a date to Sardi's? When you were in high school?" Judah was impressed. "Smooth."

Rachel giggled at that thought. "He wasn't smooth. More like a fish out of water, actually. We were broken up, and he wanted us to get back together. The only reason he even knew about Sardi's was because I had talked about it as part of my dream to live in New York. It was sweet. He was sweet. So sweet." She felt Judah's hand on hers, but she didn't break down.

"And Patty LuPone?"

"Oh, yeah. Sorry. She was passing by our table, and I was babbling on to Finn, trying to give myself courage, and finally stood up and introduced myself."

"Did she give you any advice?"

The memory warmly flushed through her system.

"She said to never give up."

"Well, given how you got accepted to NYADA, I think you took her advice to heart." Judah looked at her proudly. "Did Finn's attempt to get you back work?"

"We were broken up in name only, I think," she said. "We never stopped loving each other." Judah never got weird when she talked about Finn, nor did his talking about Anne bother her. He certainly had loved her deeply, and even now was convinced she loved him too, and the jilting had been for reasons out of her control, at least, that's what one of her friends had hinted at. It made little sense to Rachel, but she never commented on it, other than to offer him support, because that's what friends do.

They hurried to the curb and hailed a taxi, signing only a couple of autographs. Rachel told the driver to take them to her place, giving Judah a sly wink. She cuddled close to him.

"Cold?" he asked.

"Spring is almost here," she said. "I can't wait."

"But you rock a trench coat and boots, baby," Judah murmured.

"I rock a sundress even better," she purred, and he laughed.

She watched the crowds on the sidewalk, even this late and in February. The cold, clear air made everything appear etched in clarity. Her head dropped to his shoulder, just as her phone buzzed. A text. She brought it up as the screen filled the cab with a soft light.

It was from an unknown number. It made little sense.

"_**The dead live."**_

_**"How do they live? **_

"_**By Love." **_


	2. Chapter 2

"What is it?" Judah could see Rachel was bewildered.

"I don't know…it's a text from an unknown number." She showed him.

"_**The dead live."**_

_**"How do they live? **_

"_**By Love."**_

He read the words aloud.

"A beautiful sentiment," he remarked.

"Yes. But why would anyone send it to me? " Rachel shivered.

"Maybe a wrong number?"

"Maybe. That's probably it."

Still, it was unsettling. She wondered what it meant. As a Jew, Rachel believed the dead lived on in the memories of the living, and certainly the text could be interpreted that way as well.

Judah must have been reading her mind. "It sounds like something my rabbi would say."

"Yeah, I thought that, too." She appreciated his reassuring squeeze of her hand, and put it out of her mind for the moment by nuzzling his neck. Judah used a subtle body wash with a faint, clean scent that she liked. She couldn't wait to get him home.

The next morning Judah found Rachel already up, at the kitchen table with her laptop. The coffee was fresh. He helped himself.

"You're up early," he remarked, kissing her cheek, and enjoying her hand that caressed his cheek.

"Don't worry; I got plenty of sleep," she said, with a wicked look. She pointed at the screen.

"I was thinking about that text, and wondered if it might not be a quote of some kind. So I Googled it."

He looked over her shoulder.

"It's a quote from a novel called _The_ _Magus, _by John Fowles."

"Never heard of it," Judah said, sipping his coffee. "Have you?"

"No."

"Then it most likely was meant for someone else."

She agreed, and closed the laptop. "Let's make breakfast," she said with a smile.

She had a spa appointment that morning, but beforehand, went into a bookstore and looked for _The Magus_. She found it, along with another of Fowles's books, _The French Lieutenant's Woman_. Interesting. _The French Lieutenant's Woman _was one of her dads' favorite films. She had seen it several times with them. She bought both.

"Fowles is great," the hipsterish, bespectacled clerk enthused. "You'll like it." Rachel smiled. How he could possibly know that was beyond her. "_The Magus_ is intense." And, she noticed, it was over 600 pages long.

It was also tough going. Rachel began the book during her pedicure. The limitations of her high school and partial NYADA education soon became evident. It was dense with references to Greek and Mesopotamian mythology, the Tarot, and European literature. The setting, at least initially, was in 1950's England, with its own set of cultural references about which she knew almost nothing.

She was able to discern the basic plot. Nicolas Urfe is a bored, cynical, Oxford-educated cad and aspiring poet who applies for a job teaching English at a boarding school on the Greek island of Phraxos. A few weeks before actually being accepted, he meets an Australian girl, Alison, who intrigues him, in part because she sees through his carefully-constructed outward persona. They fall in love (or, more likely, it seemed to Rachel, she falls in love with him). Then he gets his acceptance letter.

Rachel closed the book when it was time for her nails. Maybe she'd finish it, she wasn't sure. Nothing in the book seemed to have anything to do with her. Judah was probably right about the text having been intended for someone else. But it did trigger warm thoughts of Finn in Rachel's heart. The idea he could live on through her love was something she had always believed, and to have it reflected outside of her own sorrow was comforting. It brought a smile to her face as she walked into work that afternoon, and her performance that night had a new spark. Everyone said so.

She even took some extra time signing autographs.

**XXXxxxx**

Sunday was spent quietly. Rachel needed to conserve as much energy for the two performances as possible, so that she could give both her all. She could then recharge on Monday, her day off. Her friends knew to leave her to herself on Sundays.

She got up earlier than usual; for some reason she had been able to sleep well that night, even without Judah. It happened, occasionally. After a light breakfast of toast and fruit, she settled in her favorite chair in the living room with the book. She wanted to know more about Alison and Nicolas, it seemed, regardless of their relevance to her. Despite her difficulty with the references Fowles used, Rachel found herself, more and more, falling under the spell of a master storyteller. She spent several hours engrossed in the book before the matinee, and a significant portion of Monday with it as well.

Her suspicions about Nicolas proved to be true: Alison certainly loves him more than he loves her, and they break up when he leaves for Greece. There he meets a reclusive, wealthy Greek man, who may or may not have been involved with German atrocities on the island during the war, and becomes a pawn in an elaborate psychological game.

"Sorry I didn't call yesterday," she told Judah on Tuesday when she met him for lunch. "That book _The Magus_ has me hooked."

"So you think the text _was_ meant for you?"

She shook her head. "No, I don't think so. I don't understand all of it—it's not like a Nicholas Sparks book or anything. But there's nothing in it applicable to me so far. It's just weirdly compelling."

"I've got some news." He looked like the proverbial cat with the canary.

Her eyes grew wide. "You got the part?" It was an honest look of surprise. No one had said anything to her.

"Yep!"

She jumped up and hugged him in Rachel Berry style, making him chuckle.

"You must let me take you out tonight to celebrate after the show. How does the Monarch sound?" The Monarch was an excellent restaurant in the Village that catered to off-Broadway actors, and thus had a late-supper menu like Sardi's.

"Sounds great!" Judah said with a wink, "But I'm warning you, I'm ordering the Porterhouse."

"The new lead for _The Moon Garden_ gets to order anything that he likes. But I choose the wine."

"Deal."

Judah's news buoyed her own performance that night. He was waiting for her with her fans (delighting some of them who recognized him with autographs). They walked together for the few blocks to the restaurant.

"The more I learn about this character, the more I like him," Judah said. He was playing Henry Vauxhall, a young, wounded Great War veteran from a moneyed, aristocratic family, who meets Mary, a destitute woman in London who had been crippled while working in a munitions factory.

"When I got the call, I asked if they had cast the part of Mary, and they said they had a possible A-list star for her."

"Really?" Rachel turned all fangurly. "Who, I wonder?"

He didn't know. They ran down the list of possibilities. She laughed when Judah mentioned Kristen Stewart.

"No, I'm serious," he insisted. "Did you ever see her in _The Cake Eaters_?" Rachel shook her head. "We definitely have to see that together. She is incredibly gifted."

It was good to see him so excited.

"Did you know Welland dedicated _The Moon Garden_ to the love of his life?" She smiled, shaking her head. "It's dedicated to the novelist Giulia De Marco. They met in high school, becoming writers together, but broke up and lived separate lives for _thirty_ years, then reunited just a couple of years ago. She specializes in the historical period around World War One, and he wanted to write a play about it for her."

"Now that's love," Rachel said.

It was good to see Judah's excitement during dinner. She was even more excited for the chance to finally see him perform. He had seen _Mount Olympus Blues _several times now (although never having seen _Funny Girl_), and it was clear he deeply respected her talent.

On the sidewalk** a**fter supper, Judah was about to hail a cab when a crowd of young people passed behind them. Rachel was watching Judah, but still thinking how proud she was about him getting the part, when she suddenly froze, hearing a familiar voice from the crowd behind her.

"…beacon of light…"

She whipped around, almost falling in her heels. All she could see was their backs, and the tall figure in the middle of them…oh Lord.

"Finn!" she barked, before her mind caught up with her eyes and ears to tell her it was nothing but a coincidence. None of them turned around, though she thought the tall one did react, maybe? Maybe not . She felt a hand on her arm.

"Rachel?" She was looking into Judah's dark, kind eyes. She glanced back, at the crowd on the sidewalk. It was clear the tall kid wasn't her Finn. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah….yes, I'm okay," she said finally, though her heart still cruelly pounded in her chest. "I haven't had a Finn sighting in quite awhile." She felt silly.

A taxi pulled up and Judah helped her in.

Rachel shook her head, then rested it on Judah's shoulder.

"The first few weeks after Finn died I saw him everywhere." Her voice was flat.

"I hear that's common," said Judah, softly.

Thank goodness he didn't say "normal", she thought. Her heart finally started to slow.

"The sightings tapered off. But I had the last one a long time ago."

He asked if she still wanted him to stay with her. She nodded, wordlessly.

**XXxxxxxx**

"Don't look so shocked." Rachel joked, "I'm honored to go to the casting party with you."

"But it's one of your normal performance nights."

"And?"

"Rachel, we both know you almost never take nights off." So did Santana, to her regret.

"Like I said…"

She could tell he was pleased.

"Sorry we didn't get an A-lister as the female lead."

"Oh yeah, that's right. Forget it. Find some bimbo to accompany you instead."

"Too late." Judah waved his phone at her," I have you on record accepting."

She pretended to roll her eyes at him.

The party was held at the Plaza Hotel. Rachel and Judah arrived, ran the paparazzi gauntlet, and found themselves met at the door by Jerry Fineman and Billie West. Billie, a tall, large woman in her sixties, and a force of nature unto herself, bestowed each of them with hugs.

"My star!" she purred over Judah. Jerry, tall and graying, embraced Rachel. "So good to see you, Rachel"

"Yes!" Billie practically smothered Rachel. "We're so proud of you on your new show! We've seen it twice!" She looked her over. "I love your dress!" It was a black sleeveless cocktail dress with a wicked slit. She turned to Judah. "You're in good company, young man."

"Don't I know it!" Judah beamed. They moved into the room. "Is there anybody you want to see first?"

"It's your party, you decide." He looked around.

"Oh! There's Dave Welland!" A tall, silver-haired man in a black suit was talking to some people, theatre writers, she thought. He had his arm around a small, dark-haired woman in a simple black dress like Rachel's. He saw them approach and beckoned.

"Hi Judah!" he said warmly, shaking hands. His warm blue eyes took Rachel in politely.

"Dave, this is my friend, Rachel Berry."

"The singer?" Welland looked pleased, as she nodded. He shook her

hand. "It's an honor to meet you."

"The honor's all mine," Rachel managed to get out. She had just been recognized by a Pulitzer Prize winner. That would have to be part of her weekly phone call to her dads, who loved that kind of stuff.

Welland put his arm around the woman again, who was smiling shyly by his side.

"Rachel, Judah, I'd like you to meet my Giulia, Giulia DeMarco."

"Hi." Her voice was dark, and slightly nasal. She wasn't much taller than Rachel, maybe five-five. Her hair, in an elegant braid, accented her planed cheeks and prominent Roman nose.

After what Judah had told her about Giulia and Dave's relationship, Rachel was intrigued. But they had more people to meet, so it wasn't until about a half hour later that Rachel found herself looking for another drink at the bar while Judah, Dave and Jerry Fineman were in a corner, embroiled in a deep discussion with Tamsin Mallory, the female lead. While not an A-list celebrity, Mallory was very well known in New York and London. Giulia was at the bar as well, looking a little out of place. She smiled as Rachel approached, the fine lines crinkling around her dark, almost black eyes.

"I was hoping to find a decent beer," she confessed.

"Sorry, I can't help you there, but the scotch is very good. Judah is kind of a connoisseur, and tells me he had some input on the selection."

"Thanks. I think I'll have some. Whatever you decide."

"Macallan. With a splash. Times two," she told the bartender, pointing at Giulia.

They both sipped, and Giulia raised her eyebrow in appreciation.

"I'm afraid I'm not much of a New York person," she said.

"You don't live here?"

"Oh no. Davide (she pronounced it 'DAH-viday') and I live in the Los Angeles area. Manhattan Beach. We grew up near there. And I spent a long time in Australia." Her accent did have a faint Australian clip to it.

"Davide?"

"It's just the Italian pronunciation. I called him that the day we met."

"Judah says you went to high school together."

"Yes. In San Pedro." She spoke about it easily enough, but Rachel didn't push for anything.

"It's an honor to meet both of you, though I'll be upfront and say I know nothing of your work."

"Making us even." Giulia grinned over her glass, and they both laughed. She kept glancing over at Dave as they spoke, Rachel noticed. Sweet. "Actually, you might be familiar with my work. Did you ever hear of the film, _Graveland_?"

Rachel thought a moment, then nodded appreciatively. "My parents love that film! Was it based on one of your books?"

"Yes, my first novel."

"I remember it well. My dads say it's better than _The English Patient_. They'll be so excited to hear I met you! " Giulia chuckled. Rachel appreciated that she didn't even react at the mention of her dads. "It won several Oscars, right?"

"Yes. Best Cinematography and Best Adapted Screenplay."

"Did you write the screenplay?"

"Oh Lord, no. I have no theatrical sense." She paused for a moment, looking lost in memory. "They did ask me if I wanted to do it, though. And to be honest, I was tempted, since the only other person I trusted with my work was Davide." She gave a sad little sigh. "And I couldn't ask him to do it. We had broken up by then. I also didn't want to end up like John Fowles, when he wrote the screenplay for the film version of _The Magus, _and it bombed so badly_._"

Rachel felt a feathery chill, as if brushed by the wings of a fallen angel.

"I can't believe you brought that up… I'm reading it right now!"

Giulia looked surprised. "Not many even know of that book. It's one of Davide's favorites. I once told him that the only reason he liked it was because he didn't understand it."

"I hear that. It's very difficult going for me."

"For anybody," Giulia said. "I like _The French Lieutenant's Woman_ better, and my favorite of his is _Daniel Martin_, for personal reasons." Giulia become more animated. "Did you translate the Latin quote at the end of the book?"

"No. I'm only half-way through."

"Well, be sure to do that when you finish. Fowles once wrote that he couldn't understand how people found the ending so ambiguous. He thought it was because they didn't give that Latin quote enough weight."

"Thanks," Rachel said, "I'll do that."

"Davide is very happy with Judah. He says he captured Henry Vauxhall's essence. That's high praise coming from him, believe me."

"I'm glad. Judah's very talented."

"So you two are…friends?" A twinkle in her eyes.

"We've known each other only a couple of months. But I like him."

"Ah."

"I've only started dating again recently." She didn't mean to open up to Giulia, a perfect stranger, like this, but something about her made Rachel think she would understand. "My…fiancé died three years ago."

She felt Giulia's hand on her arm immediately. Behind those dark eyes Rachel saw something like her own infinite sadness reflected back.

"Forgive me. That was a bit too personal."

"No, dear, don't apologize. That's an awful loss to have to bear at such a young age. How old were you when you became engaged?"

"Seventeen," Rachel was guarded, instinctively prepared for disapproval. Instead, Giulia wore a dreamy expression of sympathy.

"I met Davide when I was sixteen, and we fell deeply in love soon after that."

"Judah told me you were apart for a very long time."

"That's true. I hurt him so badly I thought there was nothing I could do that could atone for it. We lived separate lives, married different people, had children with them. My karma was to still love Davide, so much so that my husband couldn't handle it and divorced me after ten years, keeping our son. I was convinced Davide hated me. So I spent almost twenty years alone, in a sand-blown Australian surf town at the ass-end of the World, becoming the writer he always believed I could be."

"But he didn't hate you."

"No, he didn't. He loved me. But he loved Nell deeply as well, and I wouldn't do anything to damage what they had together. He was devastated when she died."

"What was it like," Rachel asked wistfully, "when you met again after all that time?"

Giulia looked like she was holding back tears.

"I asked him to come visit me in Western Australia-I was afraid of meeting once-mutual friends. I lived in Trigg Beach, about twenty minutes north of Perth. He came half-way around the world, Rachel—twenty-two hours of flying—to see me. That's some serious jet lag. So I suggested we meet on the beach to maximize his exposure to natural light.

"He found me sitting on a blanket, arms around my knees, staring out at the Indian Ocean. It was the perfect setting, actually. We had met and fallen in love in the beach towns of Los Angeles. How right and true it was that we reunited at the ocean's edge."

She chuckled, then.

"Davide just plopped down in the sand beside me and said, 'Hi Beautiful', like he always did."

Rachel smiled with her.

"I had dreamed of the moment for so long, convinced that it would never happen, that all I could say was his name. And then we sat together for a long time, in silence, because everything we had thought and felt when we fell in love so long ago, and which we thought had been lost, had been fully renewed by time, forgiveness and regret."

They both reached for a cocktail napkin at the same time.

"Sometimes I pretend Finn is still alive, and think about what I would say if we ever met again," Rachel said. She hadn't told anyone that, not even Kurt.

"Does it help?"

"Not as much as I'd like. More often than not, I find myself afraid of what he would say."

"Why?"

"Because sometimes I think I have changed, and don't deserve his love anymore."

She had to squeeze her eyes shut to prevent tears from ruining her makeup.

"Rachel, I felt that way too. And boy, was I wrong. Here—" Giulia reached for Rachel's clutch and pulled out her phone. "-I'm going to give you my number. Call me anytime you need to talk. And if you find yourself in Los Angeles, you know where you can stay." She entered the number and put the phone back.

"Thanks," Rachel said, sincerely. "It's wonderful to know somebody who understands how I feel." Giulia just smiled. "Are you and Dave going to get married?"

She was surprised to see Giulia shake her head.

"Tim was my husband. We had our son Jack together. If I got married again, he would become just my first husband. Even though he divorced me and remarried, I don't want to relegate him to being the first in a series of my husbands, you know? The same goes for Nell. She is his wife. And always will be. Besides," She broke into a warm smile and pointed across the room at Dave, "I am his Giulia, and he is my Davide, and that hasn't changed since the day we met, and will always be true, if we are married or not." Then she gently grabbed Rachel by the shoulders.

"You and Finn will always be the people you fell in love with. Remember that."

Rachel hugged her.

"Now," Giulia said, her arm around Rachel's shoulder, "Let's go find Davide and Judah. It's their party, after all!"

Later that night, after Judah fell asleep, Rachel looked up the Latin quote from _The Magus_, even though she hadn't finished the book:

_**cras amet qui numquam amavit quique amavit cras amet **_

There were several translations, but this one resonated with her the most:

_**Let those love now who've never loved; let those who've loved, love yet again.**_

She fell asleep wondering if the text had been for her, after all.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: this is a spoiler warning for anyone desiring to read John Fowles's novel **_**The Magus: **_**a few major plot points will continue to be revealed. All quotes are from Fowles's book. The novel is still worth the effort, however; all of his books are worth reading. **

**As always, reviews are welcome!**

Occasionally, Kurt would accompany Rachel on her spa sessions.

"A girl's got to keep her nails perfect," he told her on the Saturday after the casting party.

"Especially when he has a shot at the revival of the revival of _Pippin!_" Rachel commented. She had been feeling down, but hearing that Kurt had received his first callback bolstered her spirits. The revival of the show had begun in 2013, but somehow underwent a surge of popularity towards the end of its run, and auditions were held to replace some of the cast who had other commitments. Kurt immediately tried out for the role of the Leading Player. "This could be your big break, Kurt!"

"What's up with you?" Kurt asked her during her pedicure. " Is everything okay with you and Judah?" It was a relief to be seeing somebody that Kurt actually approved of since his disastrous recommendation of Mark. Kurt and Judah got along very well.

"C'mon, Kurt, you know Judah and I are friends."

"Friends," Kurt scoffed, "who happen to spend the night at each other's place. All of the time."

"Think what you want."

"I will. But you haven't been quite yourself lately, at least admit that."

"Okay. But it has nothing to do with Judah."

She told him about the text, and the book, and the sighting.

"It has had me thinking about Finn more and more."

"And that's bad?"

"No, no. It's just…" she chafed in frustration at not being able to articulate what she meant. "I think about Finn every day." She debated saying anything about what had been gnawing at her, especially with Kurt.

It came out.

"These things made me wonder, and I know its sounds crazy…" Rachel swallowed very, very hard. "I considered the possibility that Finn might still be alive."

"Oh, _Rachel_." She felt his hand on her arm, and saw such sadness in his eyes. He continued, speaking tenderly, but oh, so carefully: "We buried Finn, remember? You were there. We all were."

"It was a closed casket ceremony, Kurt. You know that. The burns from the accident…" His truck was found smashed against a concrete drainage support in a ditch outside Lima, burning like a torch.

"He was identified through his dental records." Kurt's voice was soft and delicate. It broke her heart seeing how his was breaking for her.

"None of us saw those, Kurt. We were just told that they matched." Her head bowed for a moment, then snapped up. She wiped a tear away. "I know how this sounds. And I agree. I only considered it."

The look he gave her spoke volumes. Ever since Finn died, there had never been a shortage of advice on how she should grieve. She knew what Kurt wanted to say, that this kind of thinking was not conducive to moving on. But he had no idea how she truly felt. Nobody did, with the possible exception of Carole. She decided to reassure him.

"It's okay, Kurt. I was down because the events suggested something impossible, something that I would have given anything to be true. That would make anyone sad."

"Yeah, I know. " He patted her arm again, and she could see he was relieved.

"Now let's talk about you and _Pippin_!"

**XXXxxxx**

Judah met her at the theatre after the Saturday show, and they went to his place, a small Manhattan apartment near the Freedom Tower. He made her a delicious supper (she never could eat dinner before a show) and they watched a movie on his couch so she could wind down before bed. He noticed how subdued she was. It was clear she needed his presence more than sex- he held her in his arms until she fell asleep, hoping that would be enough to get her through the night. It helped, somewhat; she made it to three AM and couldn't get back to sleep, so she carefully got up and sat on the couch, reading more of the book to occupy her mind.

Nicolas gets caught up in the psychological game with Maurice Conchis, the millionaire—she assumed he was the "magus" in the title—and falls for a young woman, Lily, that may or may not be an actress hired to manipulate him. Rachel couldn't tell. Everything gets even more complicated when Alison comes for a visit, hoping to rekindle their relationship. Nicolas is forced to tell her about Lily, even though, on a beautifully described hike on Mt Parnassus, he realizes that he may love Alison after all, but is too stubbornly selfish to allow himself to see that love is freedom, not bondage. Rachel remembered something Nicolas said earlier in the book:

_**In our age it is not sex that raises its ugly head, but love**_

Rachel was not particularly literary, and found herself instead looking at the situation in terms of music. She remembered Finn's favorite Dylan song, "Visions of Johanna", which is about two women: the earthy, sensual Louise, and the ethereal, pure Johanna. Alison was clearly Louise, because she was real and honest. Of course, Nicolas lusts after the ideal purity of Lily's Johanna, afraid of love, afraid of its messy, real-world complexity.

Alison is devastated when he tells her about Lily, and bitterly leaves Greece for London.

He receives a letter from her roommate a few weeks later.

Rachel dropped the book in surprise: Alison was dead, by her own hand.

A couple of hours later, Judah found Rachel snoring on the couch, the book open on her lap. He carefully secured her place in the novel and picked her up gently. She was in fairly deep sleep, dreaming, muttering about something, he couldn't quite make out. Tenderly, he tucked her in bed, kissing her forehead, and didn't hear her call him Finny as he left the room.

**XXXxxxx**

Energy swept in over her from the audience as she sang, like a howling prairie wind. Her Sally Jones stood before them, triumphant in a tight black dress, singing to the son she carried, the son who would keep her appalled lover chained to her forever. This was the final, epic moment in _Mount Olympus Blues, _carefully orchestrated to leave the audience emotionally charged and physically exhausted. And Rachel was happy.

Because he was here, finally, in the front row, in the seat her contract specified had to be reserved for him. Tall, perfect, and so proud for her. She wanted to tell him everything that had happened, how she had missed him so terribly, how she could only live a half-life without him, how she had felt so alone. She wanted him to tell her everything was going to be okay from now on, that what she had suffered had only been a bad dream.

But he couldn't, because she had awakened, alone, in Judah's bed. She curled into a ball, stunned by such cruel reality. Even the delicate, nascent spring sunlight pouring through the window couldn't stop the deep, racking sobs from emerging, and her wretched moan brought Judah in from the other room.

"Oh my God, Rachel," he said, worried.

"Hold me," she managed to plead. He got into bed and wrapped his arms around her. "Tell me everything's going to be okay."

He told her, even though he didn't see how, as her tears soaked the pillow.

**XXXXxxxx **

"I'm sorry, Judah," she told him later, over her usual pre-matinee coffee in his kitchen.

She felt like she was taking advantage of his kindness, somehow. Neither of them had made any sort of commitment, that was true, but she wondered if he secretly thought she was crazy to still be so grief-stricken over losing Finn, to have her life on hold like this. At least his Anne was still alive, at least Judah had some semblance of hope, if what his friend had said was true. And she so wanted that to be true for him, even if it meant losing the limited intimacy they shared now. But it frightened her as well. Judah was like a dam, holding back her slide into despair, but what if he and Anne reconciled? It seemed selfish and wrong to essentially be invested in the postponement of his happiness.

"Don't be," he said.

"I don't want to ever hurt you."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't ever want to come between you and Anne."

He looked down for a moment. "There are days when I'm sure that's never going to happen. But I have to tell myself that, I think. I mean, think about it. All I have to go on is what I've been told by other people. She hasn't reached out to me at all, not even marking my letters 'return to sender'. "

"You aren't still sending her letters are you?" Her voice was gentle, not mocking.

"No." Sad, almost resigned.

"Judah?"

"Yes?"

"Do you ever think we could love each other as much as we love them?" Asking him that hurt, as if ripping out part of herself, like a bee's stinger.

It hurt him just as much to answer. "I think so." He walked over and held her close. "But neither of us is even remotely ready for the implications of that, are we?"

Neither of them was. Letting go of Finn and Anne—that just wasn't possible, yet.

"No," she agreed, glad to be held, because she felt lost and adrift, frightened by the recent events for taking her mind into places that only compounded her sorrow. "But I'm so glad I met you."

"Likewise, Rachel." He patted her back.

"May I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"Do you think he could be alive?"

She could feel him freeze, desperately trying to think of the right thing to say, because she had just asked him this crazy question, even if it had sprung innocently from her broken heart. She wouldn't blame him if he just upped and ran off.

"Oh baby, no, I don't think so." Careful, gentle. "Not from what I know." He kept up the embrace, and let her rest her head on his shoulder.

She sighed. "I just miss him so much."

"I know."

"The only thing I know how to do to get past this is to sing, because I know that's what he would want. But he would also want me to move on, and I just can't."

"You don't have to, if you're not ready." She felt safe wrapped in his warm voice and his warm arms.

"Okay. Thank you. So much." She kissed him.

"Listen—let me take you to that all-night Chinese place with the Dandan noodles that you love, after your shows. We can pig out. Waddya say?"

"You had me at Chinese."

**XXXxxxx **

Judah had meetings on Monday, so Rachel went to her place after breakfast, with plans to meet him for dinner with Dave and Giulia, who were leaving for LA the next day. She did some laundry, and while waiting for it to dry, picked up _The Magus_ again.

By now the plot seemed hopelessly complex, but it was clear that Conchis was doing this to teach Nicolas some kind of life lesson. Or punish him. Rachel decided to stop fighting the urge to teach herself mythology and literature, and just let the author take her along with him. She began enjoying his often gorgeous descriptions of the scenery, and the stories Conchis told Nicolas as the game progressed. In the process she let her guard down; the book again seemed to be less and less applicable to her life, and more a gripping tale of psychological intrigue.

She was eating a sandwich and reading at her kitchen table. For the first time in what seemed like ages she was fully relaxed and enjoying her day off. It didn't feel like a mandatory day to be alone with her sorrow.

Nicolas is put on what seems like a mock psychological trial, a trial about his life. Then his world collapses. He is fired (railroaded?) from his job, realizes that Lily is a fiction, and left with nothing but his clothes, severance pay and a ticket to England.

And his grief for Alison. Rachel nodded in satisfaction—her instinct about the Dylan song had been right. Fowles has Nicolas, heartbroken now, remembering her:

_**[S]he had that direct, half-boyish grin that somehow always best revealed her honesty... what had she called herself? Coarse salt; the candor of salt.**_

And this:

_**Her special genius, or uniqueness, was her normality, her reality, her predictability; her crystal core of nonbetrayal; her attachment to all that Lily was not.**_

Rachel found herself crying. Hadn't Finn been that to her? Hadn't his unselfish normality been just the perfect counterpoint to her ruthless ambition?

But then. She had to read it twice, just to make sure. Her sandwich lay on the plate, half-eaten. Her insides turned to water.

In his hotel room in Athens, Nicolas gets a phone call, and is told to look down on the street. A girl gets out of a taxi and stares up at him. Alison. Then she is gone.

And Rachel knew. It had all been meant for her. Everything.


	4. Chapter 4

Then came the flood. All the promises, the optimism, the laughter, the joy of being together, the dreams, everything Finn's death had cut short and which she thought she had to exorcise from the rest of her lonely life now held the sweet taste of possibility again. The finality of her loss, the desolation. That weight which crushed her spirit a little more each day was lifted, if just for a moment. She looked heavenward, hoping against hope that what she thought was true, and that her Finn hadn't burned to death so horrifically, alone. Even if she never got to see him again, if her fate was to live the rest of her life apart, she believed she could die in peace just knowing that he still had a chance to grow old, that her prayers could be for a good life for him, instead of pleas for mercy on his soul.

It was the most unselfish moment of her life.

But it was just a moment. Now she had to figure out what was going on. Was Finn truly alive, and if so, was it him that was contacting her? Or was he dead, but reaching out to her from the grave? And in either case, why was it done in such an oblique way? Were others involved? Was this all some unspeakably cruel prank? By whom? Who hated her that much? And why, of all people, would Giulia DeMarco be involved? Surely her mentioning _The Magus_ was no coincidence.

It was too much to sort out all at once. Fortunately, at dinner she could probe the Giulia connection a bit more, so she decided to focus on that first. Discreetly, of course; she didn't want to do anything to adversely affect Judah's career.

There were still a few hours before having to get ready. She picked up the book again, and an hour-and-a-half later, reached the end. She closed it with a sigh. Giulia had been right: the Latin quote did hint at what happened between Alison and Nicolas.

And, for the first time since Finn's death, Rachel cried tears of hope.

**XXXxxx**

"Try the Fuller's ESB", Dave said, "It's on tap here". They were at Queen and Country, a restaurant specializing in British foods and beers. Rachel had been pleasantly surprised at the choice; it meant relatively casual attire. Dave was wearing his corduroy jacket and jeans. Giulia looked fresh and younger in jeans and a dark blue shirt. Her hair was down, thick and wavy. Rachel had dressed similarly, but in heels instead of flats. The two women looked remarkably alike. Judah was the odd man out in a black blazer and khakis.

"Sounds intriguing," Rachel said, settling in on their side of the booth, and getting a look from Judah.

"I've never seen you drink beer before."

"What can I say?" she replied, breezily, "I'm a complicated woman." She had never told him that she had enjoyed beer with Finn, and since his death had never wanted to. Until now. Judah laughed.

"Four pints of ESB", Dave ordered.

They perused the menus. Dave recommended the fish and chips. "Almost as good as the kind we get back in LA," he said, going on to explain that their favorite restaurant was The King's Head, in Santa Monica. ("Best fish and chips in the city!")

"I'm having the Shepherd's Pie," Giulia said. "They make it here with lamb, and serve it with mashed rutabagas, like I used to get in Australia." She looked over at Rachel and winked. "Their Vegetarian Shepherd's Pie here is good too, I hear."

Rachel felt Judah's hand squeezing hers under the table. He must have told them.

"Then I'll have that!" she said.

Judah was still studying his menu. "Steak and Kidney pie? What the hell?"

"It's good!" Dave enthused.

"Pommy bastard," Giulia grunted, and he laughed. They exchanged a loving look.

"His parents were from England, so he likes all of this stuff."

"I think I'll go with the fish and chips too," Judah decided.

Half-way through the meal, after they had discussed Judah's part and the play, Rachel decided to bring up _The Magus_.

"Giulia, I finally finished _The Magus_ this afternoon."

"Excellent," Giulia said, without a trace of nervousness, or whatever Rachel could imagine would be some tell that she was in on a conspiracy.

"Did Giulia tell you that is one of my favorite novels?" Dave asked, pleased. That confirmed what Giulia had said. And how probable was it that both of them were in on this?

"Yes, she told me."

"It's not one of hers, though." He grinned, and Giulia shook her head. More confirmation.

"I liked it a lot. And you're right—that quote at the end makes it pretty clear what happened to them. But it also seemed pretty clear without it."

"You must have the revised version," Dave said. "Fowles rewrote some passages, including the ending. I like the original better—the language is powerful, more muscular—the quote firms up the conclusion."

"Sorry, Rachel, I forgot about that." Giulia added, then grinned. "I'm not much of a Fowles scholar." She leaned over towards Dave, and, adorably, rested her forehead against his for a moment, exchanging an intimate look.

They both seemed so natural. Rachel was of a mind to rule them out as suspects. It was probably a coincidence. She started to relax and enjoy their company.

The conversation shifted to her show.

"Dave says you're friends with Tom Foley," Giulia noted, "And that he wrote the Sally Jones part with you in mind."

"Yeah. Selfish and narcissistic. That's me."

"Here we go again," Judah groaned, rolling his eyes. "Nothing could be further from the truth."

Dave and Giulia exchanged a fond glance at Judah's jump to her defense.

"You didn't know me in high school, or even when Santana got the part as my understudy in _Funny Girl_. I could be insufferable." She paused, thinking about how Finn had been able to bring out the best in her. But she gave Judah a soft look.

"You help smooth over my rough edges," she told him, truthfully, and leaned against his shoulder.

They ordered another round of pints. Rachel liked the ale: it had a complex, nutty flavor, and left a delightful aftertaste that lingered. She was surprised at how modest both Dave and Giulia were when talking about their work; she had to bring up his Pulitzer Prize-winning play, _The Weight of Events_. She loved the story, about a recently-divorced couple who are forced to drive together, from Kansas City to Los Angeles, for a funeral when their flights are cancelled due to 9/11.

"I adored that play. My dads took me to see it on one of our Broadway trips when I was in high school." She noticed Giulia's adoring look at Dave.

Dave smiled. "Glad you liked it." He looked at her closely. "I could see you as Emily."

"Hey, what about me?" Judah pretended to protest.

"Nah, you'd make a lousy Emily," Dave deadpanned, and everyone laughed.

By the end of the evening, Rachel was fairly convinced that their involvement through _The Ma_gus was a coincidence. She told Judah that on the way home to her place.

"But you think all the rest of it, including the rest of the book is legit?"

"I know, I know—it sounds—" She left off the word for him to fill in.

"Crazy? Maybe. Even if it is, though, what are you going to do next?"

Well, that _was_ the question, wasn't it?

"I don't know," she said, miserably. She had ended up enjoying the evening, but was still no closer to figuring out the mystery.

He knew that she would need something to distract her so she could sleep. She shook her head at his suggestion, but later, as he was falling asleep, he felt her pull close to him, wordlessly needing him after all, against the night and its restive ghosts.

**XXXxxxx **

Work occupied her for the next couple of days. She still scanned the crowd waiting for her after each performance, and felt a rush every time she saw a very tall man with dark hair, only to be disappointed on a closer look. And she was almost afraid to look at the front row of the audience, after that dream. It might as well have been empty, as far as Rachel was concerned; the same for the entire theatre. There was now only one person in the whole world that she wanted to be there, watching her, so proud for her, the one person to which she had once pledged her love and her art, and he had been taken away from her. Whatever the spooky stuff was that had happened seemed to have been just that—ethereal , ectoplasmic, as substantive as candle smoke.

She felt her hope fading again.

It was comforting to root for Kurt and Judah. And she had lunch with Santana, who had a small role in a promising off-Broadway musical. Losing herself in dance and singing classes. Rachel let the day-to-day routine of a Broadway performer envelop her, like a warm robe.

Talia asked if something was bothering her during warm ups before the Saturday performance.

"Not much, really," Rachel replied. "I think I'm getting tired." Which wasn't a lie.

"Would it help if I took the matinee tomorrow?"

"Could you? I'll ask Erik." God, how good it was to have a professional understudy.

Judah was at her place after the performance. She told him about Talia taking the matinee on Sunday, and smiled at his honest surprise. When she explained how tired she was feeling, he fed her the supper he had prepared, and instead of watching a movie with her, as they had planned, encouraged her to get ready for bed while he cleaned up. Then he joined Rachel in bed. They snuggled close, spooning.

"If you wake up horny, don't hesitate to wake me up," he whispered. "But for now, get some sleep."

She smiled in the dark, and wriggled her ass against him. His arms pulled her closer.

"When I wake up, I'm going to rock your world," she promised.

Rachel ended up sleeping, dreamlessly, through to eleven. Judah had gone—she knew he had some errands to run, so it was no big deal. By the coffee maker was a note, saying he was sorry to miss her, and another piece of paper that said "IOU—One good shagging", with an "X" where she should sign. Giggling, she signed it with a flourish, and enjoyed a leisurely breakfast.

The sleep had cleared her head, somewhat. For a while she pondered the mystery again, glad for the rest. It all seemed, in the light of day and with a cup of strong coffee, so…tenuous. She supposed it was possible that someone had only wanted her to feel better with the quote, and that the actual plot of the novel itself may never have been intended. And the sighting, well, let's face it: she had been thinking about Finn more than usual, and just may have fallen back again into old patterns of grief. No, Rachel thought, sipping coffee at her kitchen table in the spring sunlight and after a good night's sleep, it just wasn't good for her to dwell on this for much longer. Until something else happened, and she wasn't going to assume it ever would, she was going to treat this as nothing more than a phenomenon without deeper meaning.

She called Talia after the matinee to thank her, saying that she had had a restful night, and was raring to go for the evening show. Talia said she was glad, and would see her for the warm ups later on.

It was a perfectly normal Sunday evening show. Appreciative applause, some fun joking around with the cast afterwards; it all seemed perfectly normal.

And then. In her dressing room.

The single pink tulip.


	5. Chapter 5

It had been placed on her vanity. Rachel's heart pounded, drowning out the other theatre sounds; afraid to take a breath for fear of picking up its delicate scent. He had sent her a dozen of them, the lightly-scented variety, when he found out she had been chosen to be Fanny Brice. But this…a single tulip. The symbolism almost killed her. She finally, slowly, picked it up, and clutching it to her chest, ran out into the hall, looking for any of the stage crew.

"Did anyone see who brought this?" She was almost hysterical, rushing past those who shook their heads.

"I did." It was May, a sweet young intern. She seemed frightened at Rachel's vehemence. "It was a man, I didn't know who he was."

Swallowing very, very hard, the words coming out now in an almost a whisper: "W-what did he look like?"

"He was tall, dark hair…" Oh Lord. "…in a black suit. He asked if I would give this to 'Ms Rachel Berry'." She felt almost faint. "He was maybe in his thirties? With a British accent, very distinguished…" Oh. "Did I do something wrong?"

Rachel patted May's shoulder, confused now. Who was this guy? Some kind of weird fan? Not likely; it was a single pink _tulip_, for God's sake. Only Finn would know what that symbolized to them.

"No, you did fine. Did he say who the flower was from?"

"No, but he left a card as well. Didn't you read it?"

There, on the vanity. She hadn't even noticed it. Her heart thudding, mouth dry, Rachel found it hard to breathe as she pulled the white card out of the envelope:

_**Greenwich Hotel **_

_**Ask for a message for Rachel Berry at the desk. Be prepared to present photo identification. **_

She sat for a moment at the vanity, stunned. What the hell was going on? Was Finn there? She knew the Greenwich; it was a luxury hotel in Tribeca. Well, whatever it was, she was about to find out. But first things first. Judah had asked if she wanted to hang out after the show. She sent him a text, saying something had come up, and that she'd talk to him tomorrow. He immediately called.

"Is everything okay?"

"Yes, everything's fine." Her voice sounded calm, she thought. "I think I might have solved a piece of the puzzle—I'm just going to check it out. Don't worry—I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"

He trusted her enough to accept that. "Okay. I hope it's good news for you. See you tomorrow." She smiled.

"Thanks, Judah. You're the best." That was true.

She debated going home first to change, but decided against it. There was a nice blue dress she could wear, here in her closet. A shower would have been nice, but she didn't want to waste any time.

When she thought she was ready, she gave herself one last look in the mirror. He would be worried about her weight; she hadn't quite reached her healthy goal yet. And try as she might, it was impossible to hide the sadness lingering behind her smile. He'd zero in on that, she was sure.

In the cab she wondered who the guy was that delivered the flower. It was all too cloak-and-dagger, for her taste. She thought about telling the driver to take her home so she could shower after all; any excuse to delay what was next. She tried remembering his face, how it felt to touch his skin, how it felt to be held in his arms. And she had to keep telling herself it still might not be true—it could still be a hoax. The thought of that helped steel her for the moment when the cab pulled up outside the hotel. God help any of them if this was a trick.

Could he be watching her get out of the cab? The thought made her shiver. She stood on the sidewalk for a moment, gathering her courage. Flashbacks to waiting for the music to "Don't Rain on My Parade" at their first Sectionals. A deep breath. And then she was inside.

"Do you have a message for Rachel Berry?" The clerk, a young woman in an impeccable black suit, smiled and checked. It was a sealed white envelope with her name on it. It wasn't Finn's writing.

"May I see your photo Identification, please?"

"Of course." Rachel showed her driver's license.

Inside was a note:

_**Room 301 **_

Thankfully, the elevator didn't play music. It moved very slowly, as if her almost-four years of grief weighed it down. Room 301 was at an angle to the hall—it must have been one of the corner suites she saw as the cab pulled up. She stared at the number on the door. Her stomach was churning; her life, whatever the reality, was on the other side. All it would take was a knock. So she did, holding her breath.

It seemed like an eternity before it opened, though it couldn't have been more than two or three seconds. A tall, dark-haired man in a black suit stood in the doorway. Rachel let out a little sigh of disappointment, but gamely looked up at his face. She held her bag in front of her.

"Ms Berry?" he asked deferentially, in a clipped British accent.

"That's me," she said. "Who are you?" Enough with this spy bullshit.

"I'm Andrew. Please come in. May I take your coat?"

She let him take it as they walked through a tiny foyer into a living room with two leather stuffed chairs and a small table, in front of a fire. Another man, older, not quite so tall, in an impeccable, very expensive-looking gray suit, stood by one of them.

He extended his hand. "I'm Ian Billingsley, Ms Berry." Another Englishman. What the hell was going on? "So glad you could come. Please sit." He offered her a chair.

She remained standing, angry now. "Is all…_this-_" She waved her hand around the room, "—everything that's happened, is it about Finn Hudson?"

Billingsley smiled, gently. Andrew stood by the bar, hands clasped in front of him, impassive, silent.

"Yes, of course," he said. "Please. Sit." His voice was dry and precise, but somehow managed to exude a warmth that began to ease her anxiety. She sat; there was nothing left to lose, now. It was obvious Finn wasn't here.

"If you're here to tell me Finn's dead, that's old news," she said. Billingsley sat down as well, crossing his legs. Hers remained pressed together, and she held her purse in front of her knees, as if ready to get up and leave at any moment.

"Would you like something to drink? Tea, coffee, perhaps? Something stronger?" He seemed to absorb her anger without reaction. His look was kind, it didn't seem like he was intentionally evading the issue that was burning in her mind. Perhaps he wanted her a bit more relaxed. She gave him a small, wary smile.

"Something stronger, please."

Billingsley nodded at the other man.

"The Macallan, eighteen-year-old with a splash of spring water, is that correct, Ms Berry?" Andrew was at the bar.

What the fuck? This was no time for outrage, however. Rachel remained calm, but there was an edge to her voice.

"You guys do your homework. Yes, that would be lovely."

"Sir?" Andrew looked at Ian.

"I'll have the same, please." He uncrossed his legs and sat forward in the chair. The warmth from the fire felt good. "I know it seems like we've been spying on you, and acting like secret agents. I want to assure you that is not the case. We're here for something else entirely." He paused. "We're here to right a great wrong."

"A great wrong?" she accepted her drink, sipped, and nodded appreciatively at Andrew, who took the compliment with practiced aplomb. The whiskey calmed her. She was ready to know.

"Yes. But first let me answer the question you came here to get answered." He reached out and patted her arm. She felt her throat constrict.

"Finn Hudson is alive and well."

Almost four years of grief, sadness and despair were instantly lifted from her soul. Almost four years of forced acceptance, insomnia and pain—gone. Yet she had to gulp more whiskey just to keep herself together. It was as if all the air had abruptly been sucked from the room. She was suddenly afraid to believe it, in case the rug was pulled out from beneath her world yet again.

"How? How can this be?"

Billingsley sat back and crossed his legs again. She could see he had kind, brown eyes.

"He came to New York to surprise you, and, through no fault of his own, witnessed something he was never supposed to have seen."

"What? Did he witness a crime?"

"Yes. A murder." Her hand flew to her mouth. "It was the murder of a very prominent local activist by the Mob." His face looked gentle. "The victim owned a flower shop, and for some reason, his assassin didn't know Finn was in the shop at the time."

"Finn was in a…flower shop?" Oh Finn. Oh baby. _No_.

"He was buying you flowers, yes."

She wiped her eyes, then gulped the rest of the drink. Andrew stepped forward and took her empty glass, offered to make her another. She nodded.

"I take it he went into Witness Protection, then?"

"Yes. And he testified against the man who pulled the trigger. Which put a huge bounty on his head."

"Where did he go?"

"I can't tell you that. For your own protection, actually."

"Can you tell me what you have to do with it?" She accepted the fresh drink, took a sip. The initial shock had worn off. "After all, you two are British, right? Witness Protection, as far as I know, is a US program. The US Marshal Service."

He nodded.

"That is correct. Unfortunately, many in the program come to realize that the marshals are interested only in preserving the witness's life. They have no interest in the quality of that life once their purpose, i.e., testimony, has been achieved. That is where I step in. " Ian sipped his drink, too, and smiled.

"I'm a solicitor—a lawyer—with a specialized London practice: I have only one client. That client pays me an obscene amount of money to be at his beck-and-call, which, fortunately for him (and for me), isn't very often. The rest of the time, I offer a service to people in Witness Protection that want to leave."

Rachel hardened her look. "Finn wanted to leave?"

"Yes. He wasn't doing well. The strain of knowing his loved ones believed he was dead was too much. It happens quite often. And the marshals wouldn't agree to let him tell you and remain under their protection. They feel it's too dangerous, both for him, and for you."

"But how can he just leave? Isn't he still in danger?" A coldness filled her heart at the thought that someone-anyone—would want her Finn dead.

"Yes. He will probably never be able to live openly again. That's why he needed my help."

"I don't understand."

"I arrange new lives for these people, but I also ensure that their loved ones know the truth about what happened to them, as safely as possible. That is why everything seems so secretive—all the parts are decoupled from each other to minimize patterns that can be detected. It's a veil driven by necessity. And now that you know what happened, it is imperative you let nobody else know."

"Why was I chosen? Shouldn't his mother have been told instead?"

"I cannot tell you if anyone else had been told. All I will say is, Finn and I agreed on who would be told, after I advised him that the risk of the knowledge getting out into the wrong hands increases dramatically the more people that know about it."

"Well, that brings up a hard question, then," Rachel said. Are Giulia DeMarco and Dave Welland in on this? They seemed to know an awful lot about _The Magus_." At Ian's blank look, she told him about her conversations with them. He looked at Andrew and the two men shrugged their shoulders.

"My goodness. That was purely a coincidence."

"Well, that's good. I thought I was in the middle of a weird conspiracy."

"We wanted to start you thinking about the possibility of Finn being alive in an indirect way," Ian explained. "We wanted you to ease into it. However, we should have realized that the reference wouldn't be that obscure to a group of artistic types. I'm sorry, that was quite thoughtless."

She waved it off, glad that they were not involved.

"So you have arranged a new life and identity for Finn?" As overjoyed as she was that he was alive, Rachel just wanted to see him. And that looked like it wasn't going to happen. Her disappointment must have shown.

"Yes, Ms Berry." But then he leaned forward again and took her hand. "But not before we give you the opportunity to meet. Would you like to see Finn before he has to go?" Her look made him smile. "Some people don't want to. It's too hard."

Finn had told her, once, that he would have given anything just to kiss her one more time. This was her moment. Her eyes grew wide.

"Finn's here?" She looked around.

"No. But he's nearby. In a different location. Andrew will take you there. And don't worry—I hired him because he possesses a completely different set of skills than you have seen exhibited here."

"I would like to meet him very much. I have…things to say." She couldn't stop a tear from appearing on her left cheek. Ian produced a clean handkerchief and wiped it for her.

"You can have tonight together. But we have to leave in the morning."

Her heart leaped at the thought of spending more than just a few minutes, as she had assumed. But then she looked down at her clothes.

"We anticipated that you might want to take some time to prepare for this, so you'll find toiletries and shower gear in the bathroom. And we took the liberty of providing you some clothes, as well. They are on the bed. I hope they are acceptable."

"How can I ever repay you?" Rachel was crying now. He shook his head.

"I do this for purely personal reasons. The only repayment I want is that you and Finn find some semblance of peace over this unfortunate circumstance."

"I'm going to hug you now," she said, standing up. And he laughed.

They thought of everything, she realized when she entered the bathroom. All of the cosmetics and soaps and oils she used at home were there, including a razor. The shower and beauty ritual helped calm her nerves.

And the clothes! Everything was silk: white panties and bra, black thigh-high stockings, and ivory slip. And the dress was a stunning ivory brushed silk number, with matching, very expensive pumps. It was gloriously sensual and elegant. And it fit perfectly.

A last look in the mirror: that stubborn sadness in the eyes.

When she stepped, shyly, into the living room, Ian rose to his feet, and took her hands in his.

"You look beautiful," he said, and Andrew just smiled and nodded. "He will be overjoyed." Then he paused, adding, "He has missed you so much."

"Thank you," Rachel said, "Thank you so much." Ian kissed her hand.

"The look of joy on your face makes it all worth it," he said.

"Will I ever see you again?" she asked. And at that he gave her a very enigmatic smile.

"Perhaps. But for now, go to him. Take your life off hold. There is a car waiting for you downstairs."

And with Andrew accompanying her, Rachel took her first steps back into the light.

**A/N: Thanks for hanging in so far! Reviews encouraged and welcome! **


	6. Chapter 6

Andrew sat next to her in the back of the car. She noticed how hyperalert he was now that they were outside of the room. He appeared to be watching everything carefully.

"Andrew," she asked, even though she had guessed already, "Mister Billingsley said he hired you for a particular set of skills that you possessed. What are they?"

"Before working for Mister Billingsley, I was a sergeant in Her Majesty's SAS regiment."

"Ah…_that _set of skills. Well, I certainly feel safe, then." She tried to make it sound light, but she knew he wasn't fooled.

"Don't worry, Ms Berry. We are very good at this."

It was easier to focus on that than what lay ahead. Rachel had desperately tried thinking about what to do or what to say when he opened the door, how to make what little time they would ever have together count. In the end she just sat back in quiet, humble joy, knowing that the one wish she had all those years, the one desire, that Finn not be dead, the one wish she had thought impossible, had been granted. She didn't have to spend the rest of her life loving a ghost.

The car soon pulled up in front of what looked like a block of renovated lofts.

"It's a bed-and breakfast," Andrew explained, as they walked in. "The bottom floor is the lobby and dining area."

As they reached the elevator, Andrew gently looked at her, his hands on her shoulders.

"His loft is on the second floor. I'll be here all night. Don't worry." Then he smiled. "I'm so happy for you. You didn't deserve to suffer like you did." She was too nervous to speak.

And she was in another ridiculously slow elevator. At the door she stood quietly, nervously touching her hair and clothing, waiting for her courage to gather its strength. Wanting to cry and scream for joy at the same time. Hoping he still thought she was beautiful. Desperately wishing none of this had ever happened. Wishing she could be happy again.

Raising her hand to knock, only to have the door open softly in front of her. The familiar perspective of staring straight into his chest and having to raise her gaze to his face. His eyes. That smile. Sweet life, oh God, instead of memory. Arms suddenly around her as she started to sob, face pressed against his chest, tears staining an expensive black suit. And a lovingly-remembered voice: "Hi Beautiful."

She felt his arms releasing her and she shook her head wordlessly: not yet. Her arms wrapped around him as she clung, standing in the hall. His heart, the beautiful heart that she thought had been silenced forever, beat strongly in her ears, vibrating against her cheek. Her own heart sang to its tune. The rhythm of air entering and leaving his lungs, the warmth emanating from him; all signs of life, glorious and present; all greater gifts to her than any gold, frankincense or myrrh any magus could bring.

"It's real. It's real. You're real. You're real," she said, over and over between sobs.

He let his reality sink in. Neither of them knew how long they remained like that. Eventually, she looked up and let her hands caress his cheeks, touching, feeling, reconfirming the existence of every bump, even the tiny scar on the back of his neck, the parting gift from that linebacker that blindsided him, the scar she had always compulsively rubbed with her thumb, as if trying to erase it. Her eyes saw his soul gazing back at her; his eyes like windows. She felt his love, that rock upon which her world rested. She felt his hands on her face now too, remembering.

Then it was time. She stood on her tiptoes, pulling his face to hers, lips touching his for the first time since the wedding, an eternity ago, both of their tongues, probing, tasting, insistent, insatiable. And the current, that energy, the very embodiment of the tether that obliterated any recognition of anything but them, reduced an entire universe to vapor. Beyond pain; beyond sadness; beyond loneliness.

She licked her lips as she pulled away; the universe reappeared around them. They remained, suspended for a moment, just looking at each other.

"Come in," he said, his voice breaking.

Arms around each other's waists, reluctant to break contact, they slowly staggered into the room, up to a closet where he gently removed her coat and hung it up. They moved to the small couch, and he kissed her. This time it was slow and deliberate, soft, warm, gentle, his arms around her and her fingers in his hair. It brought them to a peaceful, emotional equilibrium. So they could talk.

She looked at him through some residual tears.

"You always made a great-looking zombie," she quipped. He rewarded her with that half-smile.

"They bought the suit. Pretty slick, huh?"

"And what I'm wearing now. I didn't even have time to shower after the show before I went to see them."

He pretended to wrinkle his nose.

"_Obviously_, I was able to clean up there."

"I know. I just wanted to see you get all exasperated with me." An attempt at a grin, but a shadow passed over his face.

"I'm sorry, Rachel—"

"For what? Buying me flowers?" She placed her hands on his face and gave him a stern look. "Never apologize for loving me, Finn Hudson."

He pulled her closer, and she rested her head on his shoulder.

"I never wanted any of this to happen."

"I know."

She glanced over at the bar and saw a bottle of Macallan 18-year-old on the counter. "Fix you a drink?"

"Sure." He looked at her oddly. "Since when you do you drink scotch? They said you were partial to the good stuff, too."

She got up and walked to the bar. "A good friend of mine is a connoisseur." Hmmm..even the bottle of spring water.

"Want to try it? There's other stuff here…"

"Thanks, yeah. I'll have what you're having. " He regarded her with curiosity and just a trace of sadness. "This friend…"

She was open, but gentle, bringing the drinks over, then kissing him. "His name is Judah. And he's the reason I'm still sane." Her eyes begged him not to go any further, and she loved him all the more when he just clinked her glass and sipped.

"To us," he said.

"To us."

She put her drink on the coffee table and snuggled close. There was no trace of an after shave or cologne, just a clean smell. She wore no perfume. There was so little time, Rachel was determined not to waste it with questions that he probably wouldn't be able to answer anyway.

"I prayed for your soul every night. Knowing that you're alive, I…I can't begin to tell you how much that means to me. "

He pulled her very close.

"And I have a million questions, but there's not much time, so can I ask you just one?"

"Sure. I'll answer it if I can."

"Will I ever see you again?"

She didn't regret asking it. Four years of mourning his death had earned her that right. And the answer came as no surprise:

"I don't think so."

He sounded as if he had rehearsed that answer for a long time. Rachel had already steeled herself as well. And she was determined now to face it graciously, to give them a chance to part properly.

She caressed his face again, trying to memorize it one more time.

"Thank you for this; I know how dangerous it was for you. But it gave me the one thing I prayed for that I never thought I would get, and I'll be grateful for the rest of my life knowing the person I love more than any other didn't die like that." She smiled at him, filled with love and memory. "Our goodbyes in the past have left a lot to be desired. Train stations and funerals just don't cut it, you know?"

"Yeah, I know." His smile was sad.

"I know you can't tell me where you're going or what you'll be doing. So I'll just tell you I will always love you, Finn Hudson, no matter what. Every performance of mine, every aspect of my art, has been dedicated to you. And always will be. Because you believed in me."

"I wish everything could have been different," he said. There were tears in his eyes. Those wonderfully warm eyes. "Because, when I told you we were endgame, I never had anything like this in mind. But now," he touched her heart, "I think that endgame will have to be here." He took her hand and placed it on his chest-first the right side, which made her giggle through her tears, then the left. "I'll love you forever, Rachel Berry."

They clung for a few moments, then made each other laugh by saying the same thing at the same time: "Promise me one thing."

"You go first," he said.

"If I can't come with you," Rachel said, "Then you have to promise to be happy. And you know what I mean by that."

He nodded.

"Now your turn."

"We always were so in synch. I was going to say the same thing."

"I am happy, now that I know you're alive. But I know what you mean. And I will."

There was another question, left unspoken, in her heart. But she knew what his answer would be, and she had work still to do, to honor his sacrifices and belief in her. So she let it nestle inside. And then she kissed him. He had to know, now, how much she loved him, and would always love him.

"You are so beautiful." His hands stroked her flanks, luxuriating in the silky fabric of her dress, and enjoying how his touch made her shiver. Her hands slipped inside the fine wool of his jacket, running over the muscles in his back. Both were determined that their last night together would be free of ego, and all about preserving what they had built together over the years, something that had to carry them through the rest of their lives. The finality of it seemed to etch everything in high relief, like the holiest of prayers, carved for eternity on the pillars of an ancient temple.

He stood up and offered his hand.

"Dance with me," he said, clicking his iPod in the dock on a shelf. The room was filled with a soft jazz saxophone ballad, backed by piano, bass and gently-brushed drums. She fell into his arms, and he led her, gently, lovingly around the room, turning down the lights as they passed the panel. He was assured and confident now, and she tried to quell the realization that this would be their last dance.

"What is this?" she asked, dreamily.

"Coltrane," he replied, " 'Say It (Over and Over Again)'. When I was lonely, which was a lot, I started listening to jazz, and I fell in love with this record." She nuzzled his shoulder, enjoying his hand against the small of her back and the late-night sound of the music.

"I love you. I love you. I love you," she found herself whispering, and he pulled her close. She could feel his smile.

"That's what I would say when I listened to this. When I was missing you." How she adored him.

"Do you know what's funny?" she asked.

"What?"

"Normally we would be singing something together. But right now, I just want to be quiet with you."

"Yeah. Me too."

They became lost in each other, not thinking about what lay ahead, evoking the time when they saw only a future together. And for a few minutes, the ache of what they were about to have to do eased. There was no pain, no grief, just them.

The song ended as quietly as it began. Finn and Rachel stopped moving. She felt his hand slide just a little lower, and she wanted him.

"Finn?"

"Yes, baby?"

"When we make love tonight, please let's not think of it as being our last time. I couldn't bear that."

He tipped her chin upwards. She could see the tears in his eyes in the dim light. He wiped hers away with his finger, then took her hand.

They laughed when each automatically reached for hangers for her dress and his suit. "Like old married people," he joked. But it was true: they were older now; their history, richer. And when they slipped into bed, he noticed her tattoo, tracing the letters thoughtfully, then kissing each one so that it could take on a whole new, happier meaning. She cried joyfully when he touched her the way he used to, and made him moan when she took him in her mouth in that special way, the one she had researched and practiced on him in her room when her dads weren't home. The sensuality and familiarity enabled them not to dwell on what was ahead, but instead to celebrate what they had built.

It grew very late, and the combined effects of her show and the subsequent events made it hard for Rachel to keep he eyes open. Part of her wanted to fight sleep, to maximize her time with him, but she felt herself succumbing gradually, there in the safety and the warmth of his arms. She lay next to him, head on his chest, listening to his breathing and his heart.

"I know I'm not supposed to say anything about where I was or what I did, but you're my Rachel, and I want you to know several things"

"I'm all ears."

"I lived on the coast in Northern California. I learned how to build boats." There was a pride in his voice that she liked, liked very much.

"You did?" She was alert again, propped up on one elbow, watching him.

"I'm a boatwright. And I'll be doing that where I end up as well. Please don't ask where, okay? For your own safety?"

"I think you'd make a wonderful boatwright," she said. "Thank you for telling me—it will give me something real when I think of you and what you're doing."

"And I have one more thing to tell you."

"What's that?"

"I saw your show Saturday night."

"You did?" She started to cry now. "I thought you'd never see me do what you always believed I could achieve."

"Andrew insisted on going with me, and we sat towards the back. It was amazing. I'll remember it for the rest of my life."

Rachel kissed him and lay her head down. For the first time she felt letting him go was possible. He'd found a calling, and she was well on her way to achieving her dream; at least they had that.

"You're not going to be here when I wake up, are you?" she asked, knowing the answer, and feeling him shake his head. She thought a moment and gave a curt nod. "That's okay." She gave him one long last look, kissed him, then rolled on her side, spooned against his body.

"Loving you has been the greatest honor I will ever have," she said.

She felt a tear on her neck.

"And mine."

"I'm not going to say goodbye."

He leaned his head close to her ear and whispered something, bringing a sweet smile to her face.

"Good," she said, sleepy now. "And yes, I like boats."

He told her that he loved her. And she muttered back that she loved him, and before he could say anymore, she was asleep in his arms.

**A/N: reviews are welcome! **


	7. Chapter 7

Her eyes missed him the moment they opened: the space on their bed where he should have been was empty. She smoothed her hand over the sheets. He had taken his warmth with him, but not his love: she felt it coupled to his scent that still remained. Wriggling over to his side of the bed, she lay her head down and remained still for a few moments, breathing him in.

A slow smile crept over her face.

This time, there had been no overwhelming sense of abandonment. Instead, Rachel felt privileged. She was in love with a man so epically in love with her that he had literally risked his life to let her know he was alive. When he told her, in the library so long ago, that he would have done anything for one more kiss, he had meant it, but she had no idea then what he had been prepared to do for her. Even at the train station. It was humbling.

He had come back to her from the dead. It was strange to think about that, after four years having to keep telling herself that Finn was gone. The guilt over things left unsaid, the sadness, the fear of relegating him to the vagaries of memory, the slow regression into the person she had been before, defined only by her ambition; all of it had done its share of damage. It came as a shock to realize that, in a sense, she had died with him. At least, the person he had made possible for her to become, the fully-realized woman she had wanted to be all along. Despite seemingly having managed to slow the downward slide with her sweet, yet ultimately sad relationship with Judah, Rachel felt she had let Finn down, somehow. But now? Maybe his return (even if, ultimately, they could not be together) might be a reboot for her life. A chance to do it right. Not just for her, but for him, too.

She could still feel him inside her, and curled into a ball, pressing her thighs together, grateful for that one last night, where they both could wish the other happiness with open eyes and absolute honesty.

The source of the pain, this time, was external, beyond the control of either of them.

He had left her a note on the table. Rachel read it before her shower, standing naked at the table, pressing her lips to the paper when she finished, and carefully tucking it in her purse.

Andrew was waiting for her downstairs, drinking tea in the dining area. One other couple sat at a table on the opposite side of the room. It was early for her on a Monday: eight o'clock. She ordered coffee and oatmeal, and sat down.

"Did he get off okay?" she asked, just to say something, but careful not to use his name.

"My colleague Trevor got him to JFK on time for his six o'clock flight." He gave her a kind look. "He looked better than we first met him."

"Good." A small smile. "Thank you for everything."

"It's our pleasure."

The oatmeal and coffee were absolutely delicious. Rachel looked over and ordered some toast as well. "With real butter."

"My parents always used real butter," Andrew said. "After the war, each swore never to touch margarine again."

"He always liked—I mean_, likes_—real butter." Being able to speak of him in the present tense again felt empowering, and her look of delight at the realization made Andrew smile.

In the car Andrew reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small box, offering it to her.

"What's this?"

"In case you need to get in touch with us." Inside was an untraceable burner phone.

Rachel raised her eyebrows, but Andrew's expression was impassive, unreadable. She closed the box and tucked it into her purse without comment.

At her apartment building, Rachel stepped out of the car and turned towards Andrew.

"Thanks again, Andrew. Tell Ian I will be forever in his debt."

"You're welcome, Ms Berry. Take care."

She called Judah when she got inside.

"Everything okay?" he asked.

"Yeah, I guess." Her sigh was genuine; the bittersweet nature of what happened masked any joy she felt, sufficiently to make the lie she had to tell him sound believable. "It was a weird fan behind the text. He had been searching some old fan blogs and found one that mentioned Finn. And he found my phone number somehow. Because I wasn't dating when I debuted on Broadway, there was a rumor that I was a closeted lesbian. I never responded to any of it, anywhere, but some fan blogger dug into my past and found out about Finn and posted it to counter the rumor. My manager was able to find out about this new fan and who he was, and asked me over his place to let me know how he was taking care of it."

"So what are you going to do? Get a restraining order?" Judah sounded concerned.

"No, no…Fred and I went over to his house—he lives in Brooklyn—and we spent an hour in his living room, talking. He's actually sweet—in his mind he was trying to make me feel better- but promised to stop when I signed a playbill for him."

"Wow. Door-to-door fan service! You are awesome! "

She chuckled, glad to get that over with.

"Let me take you to dinner tonight, to celebrate solving the mystery."

"Sounds good," she said. "A good dinner and an early night to face the week." She paused a moment, suddenly feeling the enormity of not seeing Finn ever again. "And Judah?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you for being there when I need it."

"You do the same for me. You're quite welcome."

She got up and made some more coffee, so that she could sit quietly on her couch, and absorb this new reality. She wondered where Finn was, right at that moment, while at the same time being grateful not knowing: her ignorance was her contribution to his safety, she thought. She would embrace that as much as she wanted to embrace him.

**XXXxxxxx**

Something was different in her Friday performance. Everyone in the cast could tell. Sally Jones had undergone a subtle, but important change.

The moment when Sally Jones realizes she loves Herman Lonsdale- when she ceases to see him as just an idle conquest- was one of the pivotal scenes in the show, portrayed in the song, "Uncovering My Eyes". On Tuesday night, Rachel had an epiphany while singing the following lines:

_**With him I feel the power of connection**_

_**A steely band, this bond between two souls**_

_**He is the keystone to my resurrection;**_

_**The fear I must control.**_

During development and rehearsals, Rachel had taken hers and Finn's tether concept as a template for her interpretation of the song. Several discussions over dinner with Erik and Tom cemented that approach. They all agreed it gave Sally a deeply human aspect to which the audience could relate. But that Tuesday night, Rachel realized that maybe, just maybe, she hadn't given enough weight to those last two lines. She called Tom after the performance.

"Listen, Tom, I had an insight into Sally tonight that I need to talk about with you and Erik."

At lunch the next day she explained her idea.

"I know in the beginning we had talked about Sally's 'resurrection' as her coming to recognize this connection with Herman instead of looking at him as just some notch on her bedpost. But what if that resurrection was something deeper, darker?"

"It's not dark enough as it is?" Erik looked skeptical, but interested.

"I'm starting to think that darkness isn't well-enough expressed," Rachel said. "She didn't just discover this tether; her whole life was practically…" She rooted around for the right word and her thoughts upon waking up on Sunday came to her. "..._rebooted. _Only this time, her focus was stripped down to one thing. I think we've been looking at her love for Herman as some partial return of her humanity, you know, springing from her loneliness or something. What if it wasn't? What if her reboot broke her even further, and her obsessive love for Herman was now the only human relationship she could maintain? "

Tom sat up abruptly. "And the rift with her mother is more a casualty of that than just her disapproval of the affair?" She saw him running the ramifications through his head. He looked intrigued.

"Would this take major changes?" Erik piped up, sipping his coffee. Changes made him nervous.

"I don't think so," Rachel said. "Most of it can be just changes in inflection and expression on my part. And reactions to it from Bill."

Tom and Erik chuckled.

"I'll tell him." Erik said. Her relationship with her lead was still frosty. She didn't tell them that it was because he had tried coming on to her and she had refused. Rachel was young and inexperienced, yes, but not stupid. She thought she had let him down easy, but apparently his thirty-three-but-more-like fifteen-year-old ego needed more stroking than she was willing to provide.

"Thanks, Erik. So does that mean you guys like the idea?"

Tom shrugged. "I'm intrigued. Especially since you don't think we have to rewrite anything. You know how I hate that." He winked. Everyone knew he was a notorious rewriter.

"It doesn't sound like a big change. But we'll have to watch for reaction to see if we keep it." Erik had to answer to the producers, despite his insistence that he had full artistic control. Sure you do, Erik.

"Of course. Thank you." She sipped her coffee, smiling .

"What brought this…epiphany on, Rachel?"

She didn't tell them that it was because her life had been rebooted, but only in a far more positive way, and that, up to now, she hadn't fully been the artist Finn had heard her promise to be, so long ago.

"I don't know," she said. "But I wish I had seen it when we started."

She ordered more coffee. There was an urgency now. She had things to be before what she had to do.

**XXXxxxx **

Some critics picked up on the change. Harold Bellamy, in _The Village Voice_, noted:

_**In these pages I have expressed great admiration for "Mount Olympus Blues", most notably Rachel Berry's portrayal of the tortured Sally Jones. Last Friday, however, I saw Ms Berry give us a different take on what I maintain will become one of the great Broadway characters. Gone was the subtle sense of delicacy in Sally's self-destruction, that sense of her coming to terms with her humanity through loving Herman Lonsdale, before having to destroy him in order to get what she wants. That was a flaw in the character of Sally, as I pointed out in my original review. It was a delicacy that made no sense in such a woman, one who so completely and knowingly lays a fellow human's soul to waste. On Friday night, Ms Berry revealed the true Sally Jones to her audience, possessed of a self-absorption so complete that redemption simply wasn't possible, a narcissism so pure it could qualify as one of Plato's ideal forms. The audience felt it was well. It was remarkable to experience Ms Berry drag a theater full of people slowly into hell, unable to even scream. This feat was all the more remarkable because, as far as I could tell, no changes had been made to either libretto or score—it was done almost entirely through Ms Berry's inflection and facial expression. A Tony Award-worthy tour de force. **_

The public seemed to embrace the change as well, and when the Tony nominations came out in April, Rachel found herself the favorite for Best Performance by a Leading Actress in a Musical, while Tom was nominated for Best Original Score, and his wife, Emily Lauder, for Best Choreography.

Rachel found herself throwing everything into her work as before, but somehow, she felt more grateful for the opportunity to meet fans, and began enjoying her perks, especially when the producers told her that she had a permanent reservation at Sardi's.

"I don't understand why you turned down the car," Judah said one night, as they both enjoyed supper after their respective second shows one Sunday.

"I got one for _Funny Girl_," Rachel said, "And I let it get to my head." She was almost inhaling her salad—she was committing even more energy than usual into her singing: louder, more supple, and found herself needing serious refueling .

Judah just grinned; he'd heard the diva stories from Kurt.

"I had only just lost Finn, and found myself really, really struggling with it all. I was thrown into stardom, had Santana possibly Showgirling me…Hell, I hadn't been laid in I didn't know how long." A saucy grin. "I was tough to deal with. I don't want to be that way. The car reminds me of some of the worst."

And she didn't want to let Finn down. Especially now.

They talked about the show.

"How long do they think it's going to run?"

"It's hard to say. In financial terms, it's been very successful—we recouped the money two months ago—so everything now is gravy. . We'll have to see if we pick up any Tony's. That always helps."

Judah toyed with his chicken. "I hope _The Moon Garden_ lasts. I could use some real stability."

"You're great in it, Judah—trust me. The audience loved it when Kurt and I went." They had both taken a matinee off one Sunday to see Judah. All three of them laughed at how difficult it was for any of them to arrange seeing a show these days. Fortunately, all of them had excellent understudies.

As she sat with Judah, Rachel wondered about the nature of success. Once she had believed she wanted everything too much. How much success was too much?

And, as she sipped her coffee, Rachel began pondering an even more important question: how much was enough?

**XXXxxx **

On a warm June night, with her dads , Tom and Emily, Kurt and Judah, and a sea of celebrities before her, Rachel accepted her Tony Award from Neil Patrick Harris and Sutton Foster.

So far, so good, she thought. I didn't trip on the stairs. I didn't drop the award. It's time:

"Just like no man is an island, no Broadway star gets this honor without a lot of help from a long list of people. I cannot thank everyone who has helped me get to where I am today, up here before you, so if I don't mention your name, please know it's because of a time limit. I hope I've acknowledged you in some way outside of this auditorium for your support. Just know I am thanking you from the bottom of my heart.

"To my producers, George Armstrong and Phineas Barlow, thank you for letting Tom Foley's amazing show make it to the stage, and to Erik Strong, my director, you'll never know how much I appreciate your letting me follow my artistic instincts—I'm humbled that what I saw in Sally Jones also fit within your vision."

She looked down at Tom and Emily.

"Getting to work with Tom Foley and Emily Lauder, probably the most talented artistic partnership in theater and two of my dearest friends, has been one of the most satisfying experiences of my career.

"And to my fathers, Hiram and Leroy Berry," she waved to them, tears in her eyes shining through her broadest smile, "You've loved and supported me from my very first breath. I love you both, so much."

And then, her face took on a serene, transcendent smile. She was back in her old room in Lima, practicing this speech, and Finn was there too, blushing when she introduced him as her husband and love of her life. I'm sorry I have to modify it, baby. Forgive me.

"There's one more person I have to thank." She was trying to hold back tears, but failing spectacularly. "He was the most unselfish person I've ever met. He loved me before all of this, back when I was the nobody that everyone made fun of. And he sacrificed his own happiness so that I could achieve my dream, a dream he never lived to actually see come true. So I'd like to dedicate this award to Finn Hudson." She swallowed hard, and raised the award, looking up. "You see, baby? I made it, just like you said. I hope I made you proud."

She had to be quick, before the tears overcame her.

"I love you," she said, hoping he was watching. "And I'll meet you at the end."

**A/N: Thanks to all who have hung in this far. Reviews are welcome!**


	8. Chapter 8

"Call me when you get to your dads' house." Judah was standing with her on the sidewalk outside his building, ogling Rachel's rental car, a red BMW Z4 Roadster.

"I will, I promise." She was taking advantage of unusually mild late November weather, to drive home for the first vacation she had ever taken as an adult. _Mount Olympus Blues_ had closed, and Rachel felt tired and worn, as well as accomplished. "In fact, I'll call you all along the way."

"I wish you weren't driving alone," he said.

She kissed him soundly. "I'll be fine. It only takes ten hours. If all goes well, I should get there around ten PM. If I need to stop and rest, I will."

"Okay." He kissed her. "Enjoy yourself. You deserve this. See you in two weeks."

"Take care, Judah. See you then."

She got in the car and waved as she pulled away. She watched him waving back in her rear-view mirror.

**XXXXxxxx**

He was performing when the news item first appeared on the television. Broadway star Rachel Berry, 22, had been killed in a fiery car crash at sunset, on I-70, in western Pennsylvania. A truck driver had fallen asleep at the wheel, and his truck wandered into her lane, pushing her BMW roadster through the rail on a bridge, where her car exploded on impact on the highway below, killing her instantly.

**XXXxxxx **

Several days later, Lex Redknight, the theater critic for WKBC news, appeared on the ten o'clock broadcast. He looked grave in front of a picture of Rachel Berry, smiling at the world.

"This evening, at eight, Broadway dimmed its lights for the passing of one of its own. On Saturday, twenty-two-year-old Tony Award winner Rachel Berry, who played Fanny Brice in the recent hit revival of _Funny Girl,_ and Sally Jones in the smash _Mount Olympus Blues_, died in a car crash in western Pennsylvania. She was on the way to see her family in Lima, Ohio, to begin a well-deserved vacation. "

He stopped for a moment, looking visibly shaken. When some semblance of composure returned, he continued.

"I had the privilege of interviewing Ms Berry a few years ago, before her Tony, when she was still playing Fanny Brice. I didn't know what to expect, because at that time she hadn't been performing long enough for much information to be readily available. She was a very small woman, with an infectious laugh and a friendly, automatic hug, yet, despite being only eighteen, she carried herself with the confidence of a star. And her story seemed to come out of a fairy tale: born in Ohio, raised by two gay fathers who lavishly doted on her when it came to the arts, she seemed destined for the stage from an early age. In high school, she was so focused on her ambition-to become the heir apparent to Barbara Streisand-that she was practically friendless. That is, until she joined the Glee Club, and met and fell in love with the quarterback of the football team, named Finn Hudson. They were engaged to be married in high school, and almost married twice, while co-leading the Glee Club to a national show choir championship. She dedicated her Tony award to Hudson, who, ironically, also died in a car accident, in 2013. She was accepted to the New York Academy of Dramatic Arts, even after blowing her audition, winning their prestigious Winter Showcase as a freshman, which was practically unheard of, then won the role of Fanny Brice at the age of eighteen."

He paused and smiled.

"I told her that she had the material for a pretty good autobiography already, and she just laughed, saying she'd wait at least a few more years.

"According to the terms of her will, Rachel Berry will be buried in her hometown of Lima, Ohio, next to Finn Hudson, whose death, sources close to her family told me, she never got over."

The two anchors sitting with Lex had tears in their eyes, along with him.

"On the other stations," he continued, "You'll see recent video from her shows. What you are about to see will better capture the young woman I saw in that interview. While preparing it, I spoke with her Glee Club teacher, William Schuester, and he sent me some exclusive video shot when she was fifteen, at the Glee Club's first sectionals competition. He told me she had to perform "Don't Rain on My Parade", from _Funny Girl_, after only one hour's notice and preparation. 'I've been practicing this song since I was four', she reportedly said."

Behind Redknight, a slightly grainy video, but with exceptional audio quality, showed a young , dark-haired girl in a blue dress, alive with passion, bringing down the house singlehandedly. When it was over, Redknight closed the segment in silence, with just one, final still from that performance:

Eyes flashing, smile a mile wide, her arms raised in triumph.

**XXXxxxx **

It was time for the curtain call. Judah stood with the rest of the cast, awash in applause, but all he could think about was the funeral last week. He wondered if the audience had felt any difference in his performances. Obviously, he felt different, but surely he was professional enough to not let it show on stage. It was still too soon to feel almost anything but numbness. Yet he knew she would have insisted he use the experience to hone his craft. "A sense of loss can be very fertile soil for an artist, Judah," he could hear her telling him, in that inimitable way of hers.

It had been strange being in Ohio for the funeral, seeing her dads again under such awful circumstances. He had met them only twice before, once on her birthday, and again the night of the Tony Award ceremony. He didn't know a lot of the people there. He was introduced most of the time as Rachel's boyfriend, but it didn't bother him.

They hadn't been _in_ love, but they could have been.

He stuck next to Kurt, who was inconsolable, especially at the grave site. He put his arm around Kurt's shoulder when she was laid to rest beside Finn.

Rachel and Finn lay atop a grassy rise, at the feet of a young oak. The tree had yet to lose all its leaves; Judah imagined how pretty this place would look at sunset in the summer. He wondered what they were doing right now. Probably dancing and singing, like that picture of them at the Nationals competition in Chicago, which she kept on the wall.

He desperately needed a drink.

Getting scotch back at her parents' house, he was approached by a man with carefully styled hair and a handsome, boyish face. They hadn't been introduced yet.

"Macallan, that's the good stuff," the man observed, ordering one for himself.

"It was her favorite," Judah said, fighting through the tightening in his chest just thinking about her.

"I had no idea she even liked scotch." An extended hand. "I'm Jesse St. James."

"Judah Freleng." So this was Jesse. "I introduced her to it."

"Ah, yes. You're Rachel's boyfriend. Some of the others mentioned you." He looked pensive, not like Kurt and Rachel had described him. Any swagger he may normally have shown was gone. "I'm sorry for your loss."

"Our loss." Judah raised his glass, and Jesse, looking grateful to be included, raised his as well.

"Our loss, indeed, although I didn't deserve her. Most of the people here would agree."

"She forgave you a long time ago." It was heartbreaking to see the tears spring to Jesse's eyes.

"Rachel was a better person than me," he said. His smile was small, and he shook his head wonderingly. "She sure had a way of getting under your skin."

"I'll drink to that."

"You coming with us to Sardi's tonight, Judah? Judah?" It was Tamsin, looking worried for him. He snapped out of his reverie.

"I don't think so, but thanks."

"No worries." She gave him a warm, supportive look, for which he was grateful. He needed to just get changed and go home. It was too soon. He stepped into his dressing room.

It was the whisky on the coffee table that he noticed first. A bottle of twenty-five-year-old Laphroaig scotch. His favorite. Along with a Waterford crystal whisky tumbler and a small bottle of spring water.

And two envelopes, wrapped in a delicate red ribbon.

Wondering what was going on, he poured some whisky first, then sat down, untying the ribbon. One envelope was white, with his name written on it, and his heart skipped several beats when he recognized Anne's handwriting. He quickly looked at the other.

It was pink. With a gold star.

**XXXxxx **

The setting sun held no warmth. Instead, it bathed the four people, struggling up the slope through fresh snow, in a soft orange glow. At the top of the rise, by the tree, they stopped for a moment and looked west, enjoying the quiet, serene view.

An older man at a grave site nearby looked up and nodded. Seeing him, they exchanged a pre-agreed look among themselves, and went about cleaning the snow off their children's headstones. This time the Berry's brought the flowers—hothouse tulips—while Burt and Carole had wreaths. They decorated the graves, and, noting the man was still there, spoke only of Finn and Rachel in the past tense.

The price of eternal vigilance, in place of thinking they had outlived their children, was something all of them were willing to pay.

**XXXxxx**

On Christmas Eve, a month after the funeral, a used green Land Rover was purchased in Paramus, New Jersey. The title was in the name of Miriam Threadgold, a resident of Hoboken. The payment was in cash.

She vanished after that. Not literally, of course: over the course of seven days, many people actually saw her.

Gasoline station clerks and a few restaurant workers along I-70 west to Kansas City saw her, but had no idea what her name was, because she used a prepaid debit card for her purchases. A hotel in Kansas City, Missouri, had a record of an "M. Threadgold" staying there on Christmas Day. One male hotel clerk there tried engaging her in conversation, but she politely pleaded exhaustion, went to her room, paid cash for room service, and left the next day. She paid for the room with the debit card.

Clerks and wait staff in restaurants saw her along I-35 south of Kansas City, down through Kansas, Oklahoma, and into Texas. She stayed at a hotel in Austin for several days. A maid saw a tall man in in a black suit visit her room, and the two of them were seen having meals together, deep in discussion. She left on the 30th, and was seen checking into a hotel in Laredo that evening, alone.

The last charges on her debit card were on New Year's Eve, for scotch and dinner at a very good Mexican restaurant, which hosted an open New Year's Eve party. She danced with a couple of men, but returned to her room alone around 2 AM.

She crossed into Mexico at Nuevo Laredo on New Year's Day. The immigration clerk who stamped her passport only saw a small, dark-haired woman with aviator sunglasses and a relatively unusual last name, which he permanently forgot after he had his dinner that night.

In Monterrey she stopped for lunch and gas. Her waitress in the _cantina_, Juanita Vasquez, remembered a small American woman who tipped generously for some special cheese and onion enchiladas, served with Bohemia beer. Juanita especially remembered her sitting reading a map covered in notes, with a _sonrisa secreta, _a secret smile, on her face, the entire time. She paid in Mexican currency.

Miriam spent the night at The Holiday Inn Express in San Luis Potosi, and The Hotel Palacio in Córdoba the next. She was in the heart of Chiapas now, the southernmost state in Mexico. The highway began running southwest, towards the Pacific, the vegetation growing more and more tropical the further south she went. She stayed overnight in Ciudad Hidalgo, before crossing into Guatemala on the 3rd of January.

It took less than a day to cross Guatamala's coastal plain, with its lush vegetation and distant volcanic peaks, shrouded in mist. Several farmers waved to her as she passed. A self-professed Guatemalan bandit named Arturo Bustamante tried robbing her with a knife when she stopped for gas just north of the El Salvadoran border. He changed his mind when he found himself staring down the business end of her Beretta. Andrew had trained her well.

"The toughest part will be driving through El Salvador and the little stretch of Honduras," Andrew had said in Austin. "You'll stay the night at the Royal Decameron Salinitas, a very good hotel in Sonsonate, El Salvador. It's only a five hour drive to get though El Salvador and Honduras, so I suggest you do it in a single stretch. You shouldn't have to worry about the El Salvadoran police, but they may pull you over routinely and ask a few questions. Just show them your passport and the other documents in your folder." He had given her a custom-made leather folder with pockets for each country and the proper permits and documents, including photocopies of all of them.

"Will I have to bribe anybody?" she asked, taking notes.

"Probably not in El Salvador. And if you stay on the main road you shouldn't encounter many problems, possibly a military checkpoint, but just stay cool as we discussed, and answer all of their questions. And don't speed. Honduras, however," he sighed, shaking his head, "could be another story." He described a typical underpaid policeman's life. "So don't be surprised if you get into a bribe situation." They discussed the typical scenarios, and Andrew said her car had much of the equipment, like a fire extinguisher and orange reflective triangle that many corrupt police claim are required legally and use as an excuse to issue a ticket to tourists that don't have them. "But if he wants a bribe, he'll probably find something."

She asked him how she should dress. His recommendation made her smile: olive cargo pants, hiking boots, and a black t-shirt. Looking in the mirror, wearing dark aviator sunglasses and her hair in a braid, she chuckled. Finn would tell her she looked badass, "Like Sarah Connor in _Terminator 2_."

It was exactly as Andrew described. She was stopped twice by police in El Salvador, who simply asked her some questions (in excellent English, she noticed), and examined her documents. One officer gave her a wry grin when she handed him the photocopies of the documents instead of the originals, as Andrew had coached her: confiscating original documents was a common way of extracting bribes.

In Honduras, she was pulled over once by a young policeman. After asking for her documents in halfway decent English, (he gave away some grudging respect in his expression when she handed him the photocopies), he looked them over and handed them back. Then he asked if she had a fire extinguisher and reflective triangle in her car. She let him open the back so he could see them. This left him a bit flustered. If she hadn't been so nervous, Miriam might have smiled at his obvious frustration. She almost felt sorry for him.

"You have no reflective tape," he said. "That is required in Honduras."

"I'm sorry, I didn't know that was required." She kept her tone deferential and respectful, despite actually knowing that wasn't true. "But the rear lights are reflective on their own. I can show you." He needed to know that she wasn't stupid, but Miriam didn't plan on pushing back very hard. All he wanted was some money, and she was fine giving it to him if it meant she could continue on her way.

"I will have to issue a ticket and confiscate your license until you pay the fine in Nacaome tomorrow." He pointed further south. So far, he was following the scenario exactly, she thought.

"How much is the fine, Officer?"

"One-hundred-fifty dollars American," he replied.

She frowned. "But I am in a great hurry… can you help me? I have to be in Somotillo this afternoon."

He pretended to think.

"If you pay fifty dollars American to me now, I can take care of the violation for you, Senorita Threadgold." She was struck how different this was from the stereotypical scenario she had imagined before Andrew had explained it to her. Yes, it was a little game, but the officer didn't act sleazy or overbearing. The fact was, he needed the income, and playing out this little kabuki drama, where everyone saves face, was probably the most civilized way to do it.

Miriam smiled and produced a fifty-dollar bill. "_Muchas gracias_, officer."

"It is my pleasure," he said, smiling back and taking the money.

"You have a beautiful country." It was the truth. The Pacific lowlands of Honduras were well-known for their beauty. She wanted him to know there were no hard feelings between them, even though he probably knew she was very aware of what had just happened.

"_Gracias, Senorita_." He looked so pleased and proud at the compliment that she sort of wanted to hug him. "_Adios_."

"_Adios_."

She spent the night at a good hotel in Somotillo, Nicaragua, reviewing her material for the country. Andrew had demolished a lot of stereotypes her limited knowledge of Central America had fostered, most notably El Salvador and Nicaragua. Both had suffered such brutal and debilitating civil wars that it was a pleasant surprise to see how peaceful and ordered they seemed. Fortunately, her route would avoid the congestion and craziness of Managua, the capital. She particularly looked forward to the stretch along the western shore of Lake Nicaragua.

In Rivas she stopped for lunch at a restaurant with a spectacular view of the huge lake. It was sunny and dry, with a cool breeze off the water, and she sipped a local beer, gazing at the twin volcanoes that comprised Ometepe Island, rising like horns from the depths.

Soon after, she entered Costa Rica, traveling through the spectacular vistas of Guanacaste National Park. Late that afternoon she pulled into San Jose, the capital. She crawled into bed at the Hotel Presidente.

Her sleep was deep and restful now; she was almost there.


	9. Chapter 9

"Senorita Threadgold, it is a pleasure to finally meet you." Raoul Caballera, the director of Banco Marrano, stood and shook her hand.

"The pleasure is mutual." She had dressed in a conservative gray suit for the meeting. They both sat in his elegant, wood-paneled office. A man bought in a tray with fresh coffee, which Miriam gratefully accepted as they sat down. She sipped and looked up, pleased.

"I'm glad you like it," Raoul said, "Costa Rican coffee is some of the best in the world."

"Another excellent reason to live here."

He looked over a file on his desk. "Everything sent to me by Senor Billingsley is in order, and your account is ready for you to use." He handed over a folder with some paperwork, a special debit card, and a safe deposit box key.

She liked their efficiency. Ian had told her Banco Marrano was the oldest private bank in Costa Rica, founded by Sephardic Jews fleeing the Spanish Inquisition, and family-owned. The bank had agreed to handle a direct link to her Swiss bank account, which held all of the money that once belonged to Rachel Berry's estate. Ian's people, working with her parents, who were the beneficiaries of her will and of her considerable life insurance (which was donated anonymously to charity), transferred the funds, through a complex series of transactions, into a Swiss account under Miriam's name. To use a less elegant term, her money was laundered, and her identity protected under Swiss banking secrecy laws.

She had struggled with what to do regarding the life insurance money, but Ian said it was too dangerous to give it back to the insurance company and raise suspicions regarding her death. Donating it to charity seemed the proper karmic thing to do.

"Anytime you want to transfer funds into your Banco Marrano account, you can call this secure line."

"Excellent, excellent," Miriam said, satisfied. She finished her coffee.

"Would you like to see your safe deposit box now?"

"Yes, please."

He escorted her to the vault, selected the box (#314), and placed it on the table before leaving her alone to open it. It contained another box with a cell phone, a folder with driving directions, an iPod, and a handwritten note:

_**Use this box to communicate news to your loved ones of marriages, pictures of grandchildren (hint, hint), etc. **_

_**His name is Nicolas Bowden. He wanted you to play what is on this iPod as you make the final leg of the journey to him. **_

_**Enjoy your new life.**_

–_**Ian **_

"_**If you are wise, you will never pity the past for what it did not know, but pity yourself for what it did." **_

_**~John Fowles**_

She smiled, closing the box and summoning Raoul.

Then she changed into her usual driving gear at the hotel, checked out, and headed southeast on the Inter-American Highway.

Prosperous farms and fruit plantations soon gave way to a gradual increase in altitude. After half an hour, she had left the sun and blue skies of San Jose for the brooding, mystical cloud forest, high in the mountains along the eastern edge of Los Quetzales National Park. This was the mountainous, central spine of the country, and she soon passed by Cerro del Muerte, the highest point in the Costa Rican section of the Inter-American Highway. The well-paved, but only two-laned road wove back and forth, between walls of dark-green tropical vegetation, dripping with moisture, which occasionally fell away to reveal vistas of the more distant, clouded peaks.

Miriam couldn't help but wonder what it must have been like before the _conquistadores_ came to this land. She also wondered what it would be like to live here, away from the concentrated bustle of New York. This had come up before, of course, in her discussions with Ian when she had decided she couldn't live apart from Finn any longer.

"He has given up everything, risked everything, for me several times," she had told him. "It's my turn to risk everything for him."

Fate had dealt the two of them a terrible hand. But the one thing she knew, the one thing that was true, was that they could not live apart anymore. They now knew, in stark, unequivocal terms, what each meant to the other.

The road began turning southwest now, leaving the cloud forest behind and descending to the drier, warmer, Pacific coast. She plugged in the iPod.

Her face broke into a beaming smile: there was only one song loaded on it, "The Day We Meet Again", by the Moody Blues.

_**The day we meet again**_

_**I'll be waiting there**_

_**I'll be waiting there for you**_

'_**Cause the years have been so lonely**_

_**Like a dog without a home**_

_**It's dangerous when you find out**_

_**You've been drinking on your own**_

_**The day we meet again**_

_**We will walk in peace**_

_**Thru the garden down the road**_

_**Where the mist of time is lifting**_

_**See it rising in the air**_

_**Like the shadow I was chasing**_

_**When I looked it wasn't there**_

_**Oh no**_

_**But just in case you're wondering**_

_**What was really on my mind**_

_**It wasn't what you took my love**_

_**It's what you left behind**_

_**And just in case you're wondering**_

_**Will it really be the same**_

_**You know we're only living for**_

_**The day we meet again**_

_**So hold on - and don't let go**_

_**Time heals - you know - I know**_

_**The day we meet again**_

_**I'll be waiting there**_

_**I'll be waiting there for you**_

'_**Cause the years have been so lonely**_

_**Like a dog without a home**_

_**It's dangerous when you find out**_

_**You've been drinking on your own**_

_**The day we meet again**_

_**We will walk in peace**_

_**Thru the garden down the road**_

_**Where the mist of time is lifting**_

_**See it rising in the air**_

_**Like the shadow I was chasing**_

_**When I looked it wasn't there**_

_**Hold on baby don't let go **_

Tears flowed freely. It had all been worth it, she knew.

She reached the coast road at Dominical, and headed south, towards Quinto. The traffic was busy and somewhat slow, and drivers did unexpected things , not to mention the animals, so she had to concentrate the few miles until she saw the small grocery mentioned in the directions, and turned onto a rough dirt road. Her Land Rover traveled the rutted surface without any trouble, as it wove between some farm fields, then into thick trees and vegetation. At this point the road was little more than a muddy track. She checked her watch. It was still early, only noon.

She kept going. An animal—it looked like a small deer—crossed suddenly in front of her. The vegetation was thick and close along each side of the track, even hanging over it, which made her feel like she was in some kind of green tunnel. The air was thick and close.

Then she was out of the tunnel, the track cutting through a large expanse of tropical grass. Colorful birds took off suddenly. And then it ended.

Before her eyes, the dazzle of a blue sky and sea, a white beach. A rush of cooler air, smelling of brine. And another track, parallel to the beach. She followed it until she came upon the white house, tucked back by the trees, with the big blue Ford truck parked on the gravel driveway. Another building, resembling a small barn, lay at the other end of the driveway.

She got out of the car and stretched. The house's big veranda was empty; the only sounds were surf, the wind in the trees, and gulls. Was he here? Should she honk? A better idea, since he apparently wasn't aware of her arrival: she stripped off her clothes and put on a tiny black bikini and flip flops, with a white tank top. The sea breeze felt wonderful on her skin.

The barn's doors were open. The inside was dominated by a large wooden skeleton, apparently the frame of a catamaran. One wall was covered with woodworking tools; another had rigging paraphernalia. Sawdust and shavings covered the floor. The far side had stacks of various cuts of wood and coils of rope. The air was fragrant, reminding her of the woodshop at McKinley, one of Finn's favorite places. One of their favorite places, actually, considering how often she was ribbed for the sawdust that she could never seem to get completely out of her hair after some epic make out sessions.

Memory swirled around her like incense, remembrance that she still had trouble freeing from the pain. Four years struggling to accept the reality of his death had altered her fundamental way of thinking. Ever since finding out Finn was alive, her life felt as if she had awoken from a bad dream, relieved beyond measure for the reality, but suffering still from the pain of the dream itself, which lingered, like a dull ache in her chest. Sometimes she thought the scars left by her grief would never heal completely.

The veranda at the front of the house was shady and cool. The front door was ajar.

"Hello?"

No answer. She pushed the door open a bit more, and caught a glimpse of an orderly, clean living room.

"Nicolas?" She didn't want to scare him by using his real name.

She sighed in frustration. He must be out on the beach. The vegetation was cleared for one-hundred yards in front of the house and onto the brilliant white sand. A picnic table sat where the sand began, perfect to watch the sunset. A cooler. She looked inside. Six bottles of a beer called _Imperial_", a spam (yech!) sandwich and a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos. That was her Finn, er, _Nicolas, _all right. But where the hell was he? Grabbing and opening a beer, she walked out onto the dazzling sand.

It stretched for what seemed like miles each way, bordered by dark-green vegetation and the impossibly-blue ocean. It was deserted, or seemed so, anyway. But wait—to her right, far down the sandy stretch, was a figure, with a much smaller one beside it. A dog, maybe. They were approaching, and she swigged some beer as her heart began to race. There were now only a few hundred yards of her loneliness left, and, it seemed, the dog was determined to end it first. It took off running towards her at top speed, barking.

She hunkered down in the sand, preparing to pet it, but the black-and-white furry blur knocked her backwards, straddling her body, licking her face, whimpering and licking, tail wagging furiously. Miriam burst out giggling, helpless under the onslaught of doggy love.

"Molly!" A stern voice. "Enough!" The dog stopped immediately, rolling off and sitting next to her, panting and wagging. She found herself looking up into the sun, and all she saw of him was in silhouette, as if he had been removed from the blue canvas of the sky with scissors. A hand emerged from the silhouette and pulled her, still giggling, to her feet.

White sleeveless t-shirt and blue surfer shorts. Hair curlier, only a little longer, body slightly more tanned and muscular. Sunglasses. Still gorgeous.

"You'll have to forgive Molly. All she knows about you is what I've told her, so naturally she loves you as much as I do. Only in her doggy way." He still held her hand. "I'm Nick."

"Miriam," she said, still giggling, "But you can call me Miri."

Then she was crushed into his embrace and his lips.

There was pent-up longing. And the lingering effects of the past. And the overwhelming power of a love that could not, would not, be denied. She wanted to laugh, and cry, and scream, and mourn and celebrate, all at once. And there was tranquility now as well, because they had time. Time to think, to plan, to love. No more obstacles. The Universe had had its say; their mistake had been to entrust their future to an entity so supremely indifferent. It was their turn, now. And if it had to be here, as far away from New York and Broadway-even Lima-as this was, then so be it: what mattered was the fact that the two people once known as Rachel Berry and Finn Hudson had made it back to each other again, despite that universal indifference.

Passion drove the kiss now, but without the ever-present urgency of the ones at the wedding or their last night together. It was the kind of kiss lovers have when they know they will be able kiss again whenever they want, for the rest of their lives. Lips pressing, teeth nibbling, tongues languorously tasting and exploring, hands caressing. At the same time, they were standing on a deserted beach, and his hand had slipped inside her bikini bottoms, caressing her ass. She had the urge to strip off her clothes and have him right there, but she wanted more time.

They pulled apart, gasping, taking each other in. Five pelicans swept by them, hugging the surface of the waves. Molly watched them intently.

"I can't believe you're actually here." She could see the painful memories behind his eyes as he spoke, still holding her.

"I'm here, baby, finally. I'm here." She squeezed him back. "For good."

He heaved a sigh of contentment.

"Are you hungry? I can make you lunch. I stocked up on things you like." They began walking slowly back towards the house, arms entwined. Molly trotted slowly alongside.

"I'd love something to eat." He picked up the cooler on the way, and neither said anything more until they were at the house. The living room was comfortable and pleasantly lived-in, not like her impeccable apartment. His rooms in Lima had never been messy, but weren't spotless, either. Yet somehow Miri wasn't bothered by it, because the house reminded her of _them _at their best: warm, and comfortable. Balanced. And if Miri had needed anything in her life the last four years, it was balance. Judah was proof of that.

He pointed to a seat at the large kitchen table, which looked out on the back, dominated by several fruit trees.

"I have two mango trees, and an avocado," he said, as she sat down, then paused, with a wicked grin. He opened the refrigerator and pulled out a pitcher of juice. "And a grapefruit."

She clapped her hands in delight. He remembered how she loved grapefruit juice.

He opened two beers and she sat at the table, sipping, watching him assemble her lunch: chopped zucchini (he told her it was called zapallo squash), yellow squash, and tomatoes, fresh sliced mushrooms and avocado, and a mix of crisp lettuce and spinach, tossed with croutons and a creamy sweet onion dressing. "I add sliced ham to mine," he said.

"So you don't eat spam sandwiches and Doritos every day?" she teased.

He shook his head while slicing some fresh bread. There was real butter, too.

"In California I had to learn to live alone," he said quietly. "Part of that was learning how to cook for myself. So I experimented." He sat down with his sandwich and Doritos. "However, that doesn't mean I don't enjoy the noble spam sandwich now and then."

"Well, you certainly took the lessons to heart—this is delicious." She smiled at him, and he blushed.

"I—had help as well," he said, finally. At her questioning glance he added, "There was a Judah in California, that last year."

Miri nodded. Of course there was. He was human, after all. She smiled through tears, and reached out for his hand.

"What was her name?"

"Sophie. She worked at an insurance agency. And she loved sailing."

It felt awkward, at first, just talking, and seemingly jumping from subject to subject. She had imagined it to be more…epic. Most likely it was scattershot because they both still felt they had to lay it all out before they were taken from each other again.

"Did you love her?" She knew that he knew there would be no judgment, or anger, or even disappointment.

"Yes, but nowhere near how I loved you." He painfully corrected himself. "_Love_ you."

"Judah and I were like that as well," she said.

"Good." He looked down, as if examining the beer bottle in his hand. "I was lonely."

"So was I."

"Yeah."

She felt Molly resting her head on her knee. The dog's eyes were deep brown, intelligent. I took care of him for you, they seemed to say. She was grateful, and stroked Molly's head.

"I'm not lonely anymore," Miri said, smiling. Nick looked relieved, taking a big bite from the sandwich as she began devouring the salad. She looked up.

"What?"

"I'd forgotten how fun it was to watch you eat." He grinned.

"It'd be more fun for me if you weren't eating that crap," she joked. "Even Monty Python made fun of spam, for crying out loud." Of course, she had absolutely no intention of stopping him from eating anything he wanted. Her sorrow had crushed the controllist out of her.

He took another bite, and they laughed. He asked about her trip, and she told him everything—even the robbery attempt.

"We had never, ever, talked about owning weapons," Nick mused, and she shook her head. "We never even considered it. And now look."

"It just shows how different our world is now," she said. "And it shows just how far I am willing to go for us."

He liked the "us", and her fierceness when it came to them. He told her he owned a .40 calibre Beretta himself. "That, together with your 9-millimeter, and Molly should keep us safe." The dog perked up her ears.

"Where did you get her? She's a border collie, right?"

"Yep. One of the guys in the band—" He grinned as Miri perked up her ears now—"told me he had a friend who was moving back the States and couldn't take his dog. She's five years old, and the best dog ever. Right, girl?" A wagging tail.

"You play in a band." She said it as a statement, dreamily, eyes luminous.

"Yeah. A bunch of American guys. There's a large American expatriate population here in Cost Rica, and a bar in Dominical where they hang out and we play. All kinds of music." He gave her a sideways glance. "We could use a good singer."

"This day just keeps getting better and better."

He took her bowl and his plate and went to the sink. She followed him and wrapped her arms around his waist from behind.

"I've done some research," she murmured into his shoulder, "on theatre groups in Costa Rica. Several do Broadway shows and plays in English. They even pay."

She loved him all the more when he answered," I drew up a list of them for you as well—it's on my desk." He twisted in her arms so she was facing him. "You've given up so much. I needed to let you know you could still find joy performing here."

She kissed him. "I would have done anything to be with you again," she said. "If the universe has taught me anything, it's that."

Again, she felt the exquisite pleasure of having time, to talk about all kinds of things without having to rush, the joy of spending a life with someone she loved. And knowing it was the right time to take his hand and be led to the bedroom, where he gently undressed her, worshiping her body, and she undressed him, noticing immediately his light, overall tan. He grinned at her wickedly; she gave a throaty chuckle. He told her he had few neighbors.

Afterwards, they dozed, waking up as the late afternoon sun streamed into the house. She was spooned against him on the cool white sheets.

"Is this real life?" she asked, dreamily.

"Hmmm?"

"Do I get to sleep with you whenever I like from now on?"

"Yes. " He kissed between her shoulder blades, making her shiver.

"Do I get to frolic naked on the beach with you?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Do we get to be happy? Do we get to live happily ever after?"

"That's the plan."

"Can I make you dinner and eat it with you on the picnic table at sunset?"

"Sounds perfect."

"Nick?"

"Yes?"

"Did I tell you that I love you?"

"You didn't have to. I already know. But I like hearing you say it. I love you, too."

"I know."

Later, at sunset, as the pelicans flew by again, and Molly played with the surf, and she sat close to Nick on the sand, her lungs filling with sea air and her heart full again, Miri was grateful for the peace she felt.

"I missed you," she said.

**A/N: Lyrics are from "The Day We Meet Again", by Justin Hayward. Hope you have enjoyed this so far. Almost done!**

**Historical note:**

**The term "Marranos" was given to Sephardic Jews who converted to Christianity in Spain during the Inquisition. Many practiced their Judaism in secret. Marranos were some of the earliest settlers of Costa Rica, and this bank was founded by Marranos fleeing the Inquisition.**

While it is true the term has become pejorative, the name was kept as a mark of defiance. 

**Reviews, as always, are welcome. **


	10. Chapter 10

She awoke to the sound of gulls, the smell of the sea, and the warmth of the man she loved. Her body was still entwined with Nick's. She felt rested and safe. Free.

"Hi Molly," she whispered. The dog was lying at at the foot of the bed, face relaxed, panting. Her tail started wagging when she was addressed, but she remained still otherwise, not wanting to wake her master, either.

His eyelids began to flutter as a cool breeze ruffled the curtains. Miri took that opportunity to kiss his eyes, bringing a sleepy smile to his face. She loved how tousled his longer hair looked.

"Hi baby," he murmured.

"Hi yourself." She couldn't get enough of looking at him. He reached up and caressed her face.

"Follow me," he said, getting up and grabbing her hand.

In the kitchen, he ground up some coffee beans . "I love this stuff," he said. She just giggled at the fact they were both naked. He set the coffee maker going, and grabbed her hand again.

"Wait! No! We're not—" She hadn't expected to frolic naked on the beach so soon. He just laughed, leading her outside in the warm morning sun, trotting towards the water, Molly following them.

"It's okay," he reassured her. "I do this every morning."

She was mesmerized, staring at him from behind as she tried to keep up. The hard work had buffed Nick out, and the overall tan… He was just fucking gorgeous. He stopped and turned around to let her catch up, and his look told her was thinking the same thing about her. She had worried about her weight. Everyone in New York did too (with the exception of Judah), why not Nick? But he just looked at her as if she was some goddess, which, she remembered fondly, he always had. Of course, now that he had turned around, all she could focus on was his penis. Lord, the sensuality of this place.

She looked nervously up and down the beach, relaxing when it was clear that it was deserted. The breeze felt wonderful, all over. Had she ever felt this sexy before? She followed him into the surprisingly warm water. They swam side-by-side, parallel to the beach, for a bit. She noticed Molly sitting patiently at the shore line, looking up and down, constantly. They stopped, and stood in the surf, holding each other. It was gloriously tactile and exciting. She felt his arousal against her as the creamy surf foamed around them.

"Put your arms around my neck," Nick said, then cupped her buttocks, pulling her up, as she wrapped her legs around him, too. She kissed him, hard, then gasped as he lowered her onto him while trying to remain standing against the surf. Exquisite pleasure shot through her as gravity pressed her mound directly against his pubic bone, while she was being filled completely at the same time with his hardness. She rocked back and forth on his hips, wanting to scream, wanting to cry his name, but instead, she nearly slipped off him because she was laughing so hard.

Her infectious laugh got him started too, and he almost lost his grip on her slippery body.

"What's so funny?' he managed to gasp, still filling her, still sending waves of pleasure along her saturated nerves.

Unable to speak, Miri just wrapped her arms tighter around him and bore down, squeezing him until they both just grunted their orgasms between howls. Goodness knows what Molly thought of it: she refrained from comment, cocking her head to one side. When Miri was able to stop laughing, she pulled herself up, close enough to rest her forehead against his, legs tightly gripping his flanks, as he softened within her. The waves buffeted them.

"Oh baby, that was fucking excellent." She kissed him, tasting the salt, her eyes flashing naughtily. What freedom this was.

His eyes were closed, still pleasured by her friction as he slipped out of her. Finally, they opened. He still held her up and close.

"So...what was so funny?"

She let herself down, and they started towards the shore, arms around each other's waists. The sun felt warm on her wet skin, and she grinned up into his face, which seemed mesmerized by her naked form. Those thoughts kept him partially erect, to her great delight.

"I was about to scream your name. Instinctively, I almost screamed 'Finn!', but stopped myself, then tried to scream 'Nick!' instead, but I suddenly flashed on that beach scene in _From Here to Eternity—_you know me, Miss Theatricality—and I just lost it." She giggled.

He chuckled and let his hand drop to her behind, gently caressing it. She pulled him closer.

They washed the salt water off themselves in the shower together, almost making love again. Nick finished up first and fetched coffee for her to drink while completing her morning routine, and he started breakfast. Pancakes and chilled sliced mangoes. Yum.

Miri looked so pretty when she made her entrance, hair down and wavy, little makeup, in denim cutoffs and t-shirt, fresh and young. She was holding out her mug for more coffee when he noticed the ring on her left hand and stopped dead. Her smile was shy at first, but grew radiant as she saw tears in his eyes. Even the breeze and the gulls hushed for a moment.

"It's time we fulfilled our promise to each other," she said.

**XXXxxx**

"Kurt! Kurt! Over here!"

Kurt Elizabeth Hummel had walked into Sardi's with his understudy, George Gallaher after the show. He looked over and saw Judah Freleng standing and beckoning him. He was at a table with a beautiful blonde woman in a black dress.

He shook Judah's hand. "Wow, we haven't talked in what, three months now?"

"At least. Would you care to join us?" He turned slightly and waved his hand. "This is Anne Mason. Anne, this is Kurt Hummel, and George Gallaher, right? Did I remember correctly?" George smiled.

"We'd love to join you, " Kurt said, and sat down with George.

"Anne, Kurt was Rachel's best friend."

Anne smiled. "Oh, okay! I'm so pleased to meet you, both of you."

Kurt smiled to himself. Rachel had told him about Judah's fiancée, and how she haunted him like Finn haunted her. So they were back together, maybe? Cool. He had never quite understood Rachel and Judah's relationship. All he knew was that they deeply cared for each other, yet had never gotten over their true loves.

He carefully made eye contact with Judah. They both knew the truth about Rachel and Finn, and had agreed to keep it strictly between them.

Anne wanted to know how _Pippin_ was going. "Judah says he's going to take me to a matinee soon."

"Are you an actress, too?" George asked as they ordered drinks.

"No, I'm a musician," she said. "I play violin for the Orpheus Chamber Orchestra."

Judah and Anne were officially back together, it seemed, and looked happy. But the reasons for her jilting him and why they were together again just didn't come up. Kurt was just happy for them.

During dinner the conversation naturally drifted to Rachel. Anne apparently knew everything about her and Judah's relationship, which was good. Kurt told them some fond stories, one of them involving Finn (and he mentioned that Finn was his stepbrother), and he saw Anne's eyes tear up.

"Do you visit Ohio much, Kurt?" Anne asked.

"Not as much as I like. I've been back to see my family a couple of times, and the last time I was there, my parents, Rachel's parents and I cleaned and decorated the graves." He liked meeting with all of them alone like that, so they could laugh and talk about Rachel and Finn in the present tense, even though they missed them terribly. It felt good to take off the mask of grief among them.

"Anne, have you seen Rachel's caricature here?"

She nodded, looking up at the wall opposite their table, where Rachel's picture was. "Judah showed me. He said you gave them the photo that they used."

"Yeah, I did." He didn't have to fake his tears. He had taken the picture on Bow Bridge, a year after Finn's death. Her face was pensive, the appreciation of the beauty of the park tempered with memory. The caricature captured her mood perfectly.

"Finn told me that when he took her here for dinner when we were in New York for the National Show choir championships, back in high school, she told him her face would be up there someday."

Okay. Enough of that. Kurt changed the subject to _Pippin_ when the dessert arrived.

It was easier to maintain the mask of grief that way.

**XXXXxxxx**

The second performance that day had taken everything out of him. Kurt dragged himself to his dressing room, looking forward to just heading home afterwards and crashing. Thank goodness he had tomorrow off.

He was so tired that he didn't notice the envelope with the gold star right away. It was tucked under his phone on the small coffee table. But when he did, he grabbed a bottle of water and sat on the couch with it.

It held a photograph. Sunset on a beach somewhere. Gorgeous. And his brother was standing there, smiling, dressed in a white peasant shirt and white pants, barefoot in the sand. The wind was mussing his dark hair, which was a little longer. He had a tan. A tan?

And she was standing next to him, beaming, in a simple white cotton dress, flowers woven in her hair, holding a bouquet of tropical flowers. She was barefoot too, which only accentuated their adorable height difference.

And sitting in front of them was a gorgeous black-and-white border collie.

They looked happy. No, not just happy: at peace. At peace, for the first time since they met. He flipped over the picture.

_**We love you, Kurt **_

It broke his heart: all they had ever truly wanted was each other. But fate and their inexperience at life and love had seemed to conspire to prevent this simple union from occurring. Kurt didn't believe they were being punished for some reason, but the price Finn and Rachel had to end up paying for loving each other as purely as they did seemed excessive to him, even in a pitilessly indifferent universe.

But all of that didn't matter now. All that mattered was they emerged from the crucible intact, in love, and at peace. And now joined.

"Congratulations, you crazy kids," he said, wiping his nose, and kissed them.

His phone was ringing. It was Judah.

Kurt smiled.

_**A/N: And so it ends. I hope you enjoyed it. **_


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